


Ekstasis

by eag



Series: Fortunae Plango Vulnera [6]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: Anxiety, Asexual Character, Aunty Entity - Freeform, Bartertown, Bust a deal and face the wheel, Canon-Typical Violence, Dr. Dealgood, Drivers and Lancers, F/M, Friendship, Furiosa and Coil, Furiosa becomes Imperator, Gen, Imperator Furiosa - Freeform, Imperator drama, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lancers on top, Loneliness, Longing, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Morsov and Elvis, Morsov and Stonker, Morsov is promoted, Nightmares, Nux and Slit team up, Other, Pain, Panic Attacks, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scars, Sex, Sexual Content, Slavery, Slow Burn, Tran and Dart, War Boy Society, War Boys, War Pups - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-13 20:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 113,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5715316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eag/pseuds/eag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the loss of her hand, Furiosa is raised as Imperator, which comes with new challenges and a surprise link to the past that she thought had been lost forever.  Nux and Slit find themselves drawing closer together as they are formally partnered as Driver and Lancer, though Slit has been profoundly changed by his time in captivity.  Morsov finds himself in a new crew, with new obligations that give him the family he never thought he could have.</p><p>Follows <i>Fortuna</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Fortune Solio

**Author's Note:**

> Please check the tags for warnings. Tags will likely be updated over the course of the story.

Supporting each other on unsteady feet, Furiosa and the Ace walked away slowly from the infirmary to the silence of the empty Half-life Noble nest. Looking around the moonlit room, Furiosa could see the discarded belongings of the former crew; a broken pair of bootlaces, a skull-carved stone, a crude engine pinched out of clay like a small mechanical heart, and she wondered who those things had belonged to, though now they belonged to no one.

Once they were settled with their boots tossed off haphazardly, both collapsed onto the sand, exhausted.

It was the first time in a long time that Furiosa had slept the night through, and the warm sand was a stark contrast of comfort to the cold and unforgiving stone benches of the infirmary. It seemed that even the deep ache of her missing hand couldn't wake her, as though she had grown accustomed to living with it.

But eventually something did, the burning scent of kerosene and soot and something else she could not identify.

Furiosa's eyes opened blearily. In the early morning darkness that shivered with the growing energy of impending dawn, the faint glow of a shuttered lantern illuminated the Ace.

Holding a knife in one hand, its red-hot tip glowing in the darkness, and the rusted steel frame of a round side-view mirror in the other, the Ace slowly pressed the hot blade to the skin of his face, unflinching, making no sound as the steel sizzled against flesh..

Drowsy, it took Furiosa a while to realize that the Ace was putting on mourning for the Imperator Acosta.

Again and again, the Ace heated the knife-edge and pressed it to his face, building the branded scar in imitation of Acosta's scars. His steady hand followed the contour of the skull beneath the bone, of the death beneath the flesh, and in the sleepy darkness, as still as a dream but for the mutual rhythm of breath that moved and shifted following the individual paces of their own lives, it took Furiosa a long time to realize that the strange feeling she had looking upon the Ace was love.

*****

“First order of business, boss. Who do you want raised for your Half-life Nobles?”

Furiosa did not hesitate; she had been thinking over the matter for some time. “Besides you, of course: Coil, Morsov, Tran, and Dart.”

“Good choices,” the Ace nodded, making a mental note of it.

“On top of that, I want supplemental Lancers aboard. As many again as there are Half-life Nobles.” Furiosa looked at the Ace levelly, daring him to disagree. “We can pull them from the Lancer pool, but I want there to be at least ten total up top at all times. I don't ever want a repeat of what happened.”

“No, you're right. We failed...we failed Acosta and we failed each other.” The Ace brought his hands together briefly, interlacing his fingers into the V8. “Should have had supplemental Lancers on board in any case. Idea's been floating around too long without anything happening. All right, who do you want?”

Furiosa named off a list of possible Lancers.

“What about Slit?” The Ace suggested.

“What about him?”

“Slit's been in the patrol pool for a long time. He's the best Lancer without a permanent ride by far.” 

“Let someone else deal with him. He may be talented, but I need a crew I can depend on.”

“Fair enough,” the Ace said mildly, but she could tell he was irritated; he had been looking to place Slit for some time.

“I'm sorry Ace. If it were only for you, I'd do it, but it's for the War Rig. I need a cohesive crew.”

“Sure, boss. Understood.” The Ace sighed, and then winced as the breath afterwards caught healing ribs in a bad way. “He'll be fine. Forgot that there are some other options for him now that Morsov's been raised. You want me to break the news to the boys?”

“Let's go together.”

“All right, but...” The Ace caught her eye. “One thing first, boss...”

“Ace?”

“Just...a little personal business.” The Ace mumbled, seemingly embarrassed and he rubbed his hands nervously through the scruff of dark hair, grown out jagged during his time of convalescence. “Probably lots of War Boys will be asking you but...well, suppose someone's gotta be first...”

“Ace, what is it?” Furiosa asked gently. “You know you can ask.”

“All right.” The Ace nodded to himself, as if convincing himself of something. “Furiosa. You're the last one to-- That is, you Witnessed him. Acosta.”

Furiosa nodded.

“How...” The Ace cleared his throat. “How did he die?”

“Fighting. He was shot. Through the arm, the neck and in his chest; mostly bled out by the time I got to the cab. But he held the War Rig steady the entire time, until he couldn't hold on any longer.” Furiosa frowned at the dark memory of blood slicking the inside of the War Rig a ghastly crimson, blacker where it had pooled beneath her boots.

“Did he...say anything?”

“No.” Furioa sighed. “I'm sorry, Ace, he was too far gone by the time I got to him. He was your friend, wasn't he?”

“Just an old War Boy from the old days,” the Ace sighed, shrugging it off. “But...if you could.”

“What is it?”

He gestured her over, and took her hand. “Since you Witnessed him,” the Ace's voice was low, difficult to hear. Bringing her hand up, he touched her fingertips lightly to the livid red marks of his fresh mourning scars, one after the other.

“Ace! Doesn't that hurt?”

“Pain won't cling for long. It'll go away soon enough. But I'll have this to remember.” The Ace sighed, letting go of her hand to touch the new scars himself. “Thank you, Furiosa.”

“I don't know if I did anything...” Furiosa stared at her fingers, rubbing them together; the branded wounds had been hot, as if the fire that birthed them clung still to the Ace's scarred and weathered skin.

“You did for him what every War Boy needs most,” the Ace said simply. “Now, I guess we should--”

“Ace. Furiosa. Oh, thank goodness.” 

Furiosa turned at the sound of the familiar voice.

“Coil.” 

Coil stood politely outside the stone-chipped doorway of the Half-life Noble nest, forbidden by custom to enter. He appeared palpably relieved, but over what, Furiosa could not say. It seemed to her that her crewmate – no, former crewmate – looked unusually strained; his face was drawn and hollow and it seemed to her that he had lost flesh. Briefly, Furiosa wondered when it was that she had last seen him, but could not rightly remember. 

He seemed different now, a stranger, and she wondered if that was what he saw as well. Self-conscious, she found herself tucking her left arm slightly behind her, not wanting him to see her loss.

“Went to the infirmary to find you...” Coil began, but then he shook it off. “Never mind, it's nothing. Just glad to see you both up and about.”

“Should come in, War Boy. Imperator needs a word with you,” the Ace said mock sternly, and Furiosa could see the faint curl of a smile at the corner of his crooked mouth.

“Um.” Nervously, Coil folded his fingers into the V8, ducking his head as he came in.

“You don't have to do that for me, Coil, even if I am an Imperator now. But there is something else you can do.” She offered him her right hand, and he clasped it tightly, his grip firm and sure despite the faint tremor in his fingers.

“What's that?” Coil blinked.

“Coil. All the time we've ridden together,” Furiosa began, and paused as Coil looked down at her expectantly, his brow furrowed with concern. “You've been the best crewmate a War Boy could ask for. So now that I'm War Rig Imperator...I'm bringing you with me. Coil, I want you to be my Half-life Noble--”

“Wait.” The Ace shook his head. “There's right words for that, Imperator. 'Be now a Half-life Noble for the rest of your half-life.'”

“Of course.” Furiosa looked up to meet Coil's blue eyes, bright with unshed tears. “Be now a Half-life Noble, Coil, for the rest of your half-life.”

“Furiosa!” Unthinking, Coil drew her into a tight, familiar embrace, and it sent a flood of memories through Furiosa, the warmth and security of her crewmate's arms. Driver. Lancer. They had been both for each other, and had worked alongside each other for so long now that when she thought about it, she realized that it was near half her life. “I won't let you down.”

Lightly, Coil kissed her, his lips touching hers to seal the deal.

Furiosa was surprised. “You don't have to promise that. I know you won't let me down.”

“That was for something else, Imperator.” Coil let her go and wiped at a stray tear. “I'm promising you that we'll ride together, always. No matter what.”

“No matter what...” Furiosa breathed, catching the faint metallic scent of his skin, the iron scent of a War Boy.


	2. Chapter 2

Nux knew the car he had been assigned from the pool was not much better than trash. But even among the vehicles that they had captured, this was still one of the better options. His first drive was nowhere near the car he had dreamt of; it was a smog gray Morris Minor with an in-line four whose acceleration could be most favorably described as sluggish. Even with a boost of nitrous, Nux had a hard time getting up to pace in under 30 seconds and the thought was infuriating; how was he supposed to drive into battle if he couldn't even get the car moving?

“It's still too heavy. At least twenty kilos.” Nux walked a circuit around the car, trying to think of what else could be lightened.

Frustrated, the Revhead huffed his exasperation, “Listen, Driver, we've already stripped the interior down to nothing but the seat, the pedals, and the wheel. We've replaced everything we can with lighter parts. There's not much else to be done unless you want us to start cutting up the chassis.”

“Which, as I said, would mess up the balance and the aero. There must be a better way.” Irritated, Nux paced.

“Then take off a fuel tank if you're so worried about weight. Or remove the window glass.”

Nux shot the Revhead a withering look.

“Nuxy, why don't we call it a day?” Morsov suggested, reasonable as ever. “We're already two hours over. All the other shops are closed for the day.”

“This needs to be fixed before we go out again. The Imperator's not going to be poorly forever. Sooner or later we'll be running to Bartertown again and I need my car ready.”

“You could probably think better on a full stomach,” Morsov pointed out. “After all, supper's starting any time now. Why don't we try again tomorrow?”

“Morsov, you just don't understand– ” Nux paused, taken aback as the Ace entered the shop, Furiosa behind him. The Ace had on a gleaming fresh coat of the white, and Furiosa... Nux blinked; he had never seen her before without the white.

“Ace?”

“It's Furi- the Imperator!”

The Ace nodded to Nux. “Running overtime?”

“We're done here,” Morsov said boldly, ending the standoff.

“Good. You're just who we needed to see,” Furiosa said, nodding to Morsov, before turning to Nux. “Unless you need the Lancer for something else?”

“No, of course not.” Nux stepped back, giving them space.

“Good.”

 

“I wanted to thank you properly, Morsov.” Furiosa glanced at the other War Boys in the shop; they busied themselves with cleaning up, but she knew that it was a cover for eavesdropping; they were curious as well, wanting to know what the new Imperator's first decisions were now that she and her crew lead were healthy enough to be moving around the warren.

“Huh? For what?”

“On top of the War Rig, you saved me from falling. You saved my life and bound up my hand. I'll always be grateful for that.”

“O-oh, that. It was nothing. Just doing what I'm meant to do. Only wish I could have gotten to you first before...” Morsov gestured awkwardly, at her bound stump and Furiosa smiled to herself, charmed; Morsov was blushing furiously under his white.

“You did good, Morsov.” The Ace ran his hand over Morsov's head affectionately as if the muscular Lancer was still a War Pup. “Heard all about it from the Imperator. Sounded historic, fightin off all them Bandits. You should be proud.”

“T-thanks.” Morsov bowed his head. “It was just doing my job, is what it was.”

“That leads me to another matter we should discuss.” Furiosa caught Morsov's eye. “When you came up on the War Rig, you promoted yourself then. We both did, out of necessity.”

“Y-yeah? G-guess that's true.” Morsov's warm brown eyes widened. Behind him, the other War Boys paused in their work, and the quiet bustle of the shop fell to silence.

“It's a promotion that you're keeping for good, as it's a promotion you deserved. Morsov, you're a Half-life Noble now. Now, and for the rest of your half-life,” Furiosa said, adding the ritual words even though she didn't like them.

Morsov was silent for a moment, and then as the words sank in, the shop erupted into cheering, War Boys shouting Morsov's name as Morsov laughed, giddy with joy.

*****

Slit came in dusty from the patrol road. Leaning idly against the support strut of the basket, he glanced down at the Wretched with disinterested eyes, unmoved by the heights to which he was ascending.

Works and days. Today, tomorrow...it was just another day on the rota. They were coming in late; one of the cars picked up a flat on the way back, holding up the rest of the patrol as they worked to get it fixed, and that meant they'd be late to supper. But at least there would be supper; they weren't so late as to have missed it entirely.

To Slit's surprise, Nux was waiting for him, pacing anxiously on the metal walk beside the lift. Slit grit his teeth at the sight; he didn't need a keeper. After all, being captured by Bandits on that unlucky run was a fluke, an aberration, even if he'd wear the scars all his life.

Unconsciously, Slit touched the metal staples that were now part of his face.

“Slit!” Nux waved him over, and Slit ignored him, pretending to check up on some detail with the Driver to force Nux to wait.

“Slit! Finally! I've been waiting for you.”

“Yeah?” Half a mind on his hot bowl of food already, Slit knew he had to decontaminate first; no one would appreciate any of the patrol coming in treading toxic road dust. “What do you need?”

“We need to talk.” Nux seemed almost cheerful.

“Why?”

“I wanted to tell you that I figured out a way to lighten my car by a few kilos.”

“So?”

“I'm getting a new Lancer. A lighter one.”

“Good for you.” Irritably, Slit stalked away toward the wastewater catchment, wondering who Nux had selected. A pile of new, younger Lancers had emerged from the debacle of the Bandit attack, too many for Slit to bother learning their names either on the road or at the table, and he wondered which one Nux had been courting on the sly.

Then Slit vaguely wondered how Morsov had lost his ride; it was not like Nux and Morsov to quarrel. If they were going to fall out, he would have known already--

Unless...

“Is the Imperator walking around now?” Slit turned back to look at Nux. “Is that what happened?”

Nux nodded.

“Then he's a Half-life Noble now, isn't he? Your former Lancer.”

“Yeah, Morsov just got promoted. I was there to see it.”

“Good for him. Have fun with your new Lancer, whoever he is,” Slit growled and walked away, hating the sound of his own voice, the way the stiff scar tissue in his mouth pulled at his lips and distorted his words.

“Slit, don't be a fool.” Nux caught him by his elbow, and Slit was briefly surprised by the brightness of Nux's eyes as they reflected the last light of the setting sun that tinted the world crimson and gold. “It's you. I want you riding with me.”

“I don't want your pity.” Slit surprised himself when the words came out, and he shook Nux off, heading away quickly to wash.

 

“Slit. You know I've wanted you riding with me for a long time.” Coming up on Slit's right from behind, Nux realized at the last minute that Slit probably couldn't hear him, but that didn't mean that Slit didn't flinch, surprised by Nux's approach. Slit gave him a sharp glare, angry at being ambushed.

Nux shifted to Slit's left so that Slit could hear him clearly and repeated himself. “I've wanted you riding with me for a long time. Why are you being so stubborn?” Cautiously, he reached for Slit's hand. “You know you're the only one I've asked.”

Slit considered shaking Nux off, but then let Nux twine their fingers together.

“Come on, Slit.” Nux gave his hand a squeeze. “I'm asking you now so you won't be surprised when I ask you properly in front of everyone tomorrow at supper.”

“You mean so that you won't get embarrassed if I turned you down in front of everyone.”

“Huh? Sorry, you sort of mumbled that...I didn't hear that clearly.”

“I said, 'fine'. If it means so much to you.” Slit growled. “If you want me riding with you that bad, I'll do it. But your car better be fast, or I'm going back to the patrol.”

Nux met Slit's mismatched eyes. “I'm working on it.”

 

The answer came, as it often did to Nux, in a dream. 

In his dream the car sprang forth lightly, wind whistling over the bodywork and it was as though he could see the contours of the airflow around it, and when he woke, Nux knew what he had to do and who he had to talk to in order to get it done.

 

“Driver, your ideas are bad.” The heavy-set Blackthumb gave Nux a skeptical look. “You know this means your car won't be able to take more than a few little bumps. After we do this, it can't survive a big shunt. Too light a body and if it gets hit hard enough, it'll either get crushed or trip over its own feet. Get destabilized and whoosh, off you go.” The Blackthumb pantomimed the tumbling of an overturned car, turning her hands over end over end to show Nux what she meant.

“Yeah, so I won't get shunted. I'm serious. Fine down the entire body. I want the metal thinned down.”

The Blackthumb's elegantly curved eyebrows raised at his presumption, addressing her so personally when they barely knew each other. “All right then. You're the boss.” She waved her arm, and the bodywork crew gathered close curiously, some wondering out loud why they had been called to work on a car that seemed perfectly intact, voicing disapproval. “You heard the madman. He wants it thinned down from 16 to 21 gauge, all around.”

“22,” Nux said steadily, daring anyone to disagree.

The Blackthumb gave him a look of disgust. “22 it is. Let's get to work.”

Nux stood back to watch the work as the crew began grinding, and below the remaining smog gray paint, the shiny steel beneath was lovingly revealed under the arcing sparks of the powered tools.

*****

Slit warmed his cold hands on the hot bowl, sipping in the steam coming off the hot bowl of mush, briefly enjoying sharp anticipation of growing hunger. 

Just as he set his spoon to the food, Morsov sat down beside him, initially at his right but then quickly, before he was completely settled, Morsov corrected himself and moved to Slit's left.

“Nux sent you, didn't he?” Slit gave Morsov a look; these days Morsov sat far from the rank and file, eating with the other members of the leadership, raised high among the Half-life Nobles. “Otherwise you wouldn't be here.”

“I can't tell you that,” Morsov grinned, digging in. “You know it's supposed to be a surprise. Anyway, what if I just wanted to see you? We haven't talked in a while. Not since...well, since before...” Morsov gestured, pantomiming Slit's scarred left cheek. “You been okay? It looks a lot better now that it's healed up...”

“Medicore,” Slit muttered under his breath; it was just like Morsov to be unable to keep a secret. Morsov was utterly too transparent with his feelings.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” Slit stared at the chipped metal edge of his spoon, at the stainless steel bowl, his scarred and asymmetrical reflection distorted in the curved surface, the scratches in the metal running jagged over the image of his face.

“And...besides,” Morsov said, tactfully changing the subject. “Aren't you excited to get an offer?”

Ignoring Morsov, Slit focused on his food, but the pleasure was gone knowing that all eyes were on them.

 

“Lookit Morsov slummin it with the unpaired Lancers. You think he misses his friends down the line?”

“Bet you an hour's work that Slit's gettin an offer.”

“You're on. Who'd take him?”

“Nux. They're all mates, the three of them. It'd make sense that Nux called Morsov to stand in as second.”

“No way, Nux? A War Boy of War Boys deserves better.”

“Why not? You see a better Lancer in the pool? Besides, they've been close all their half-lives, since they were pups. Do everything together. Probably the only one who can get Slit to behave. Why not?”

“It's just...weird. Isn't there supposed to be some space between them?”

“Space?”

“Like...Lancers aren't usually older than their Drivers. And well, just look at me. Probably at least fifteen hundred days or more between me 'n my Driver.”

“Oh. Ha! Is that all? No, don't be foolish. Listen, Lancer: when the road chooses you, it don't matter if you're old or young, Organical or Mechanical, male or female, two headed or one. When the Fury Road chooses you, you go and you ride it til you're done riding your life's ride. That's the law, Lancer, that's the way the world engine turns over. You should know better.”

“Then maybe it's just weird to me because it's Slit.”

Slit grit his teeth and dug into his food.

 

Soon enough but not as soon as Slit would have liked, Nux came over and vacating the seat beside Slit, Morsov stood close at hand.

“Well?” Slit met Nux's eyes. “Gonna get this over with or what?'

“Slit! Don't be like that. Let me do this properly,” Nux said, exasperated. “Here, give me your hand. No, the other one.”

“Really? Do you have to? Fine, you always have to have things your way.” Sourly, Slit offered Nux his hand, and Nux took it.

Nux closed his hands over Slit's, and briefly, he forgot everything that he was going to say, realizing that an anticipatory hush had silenced the mess hall. He clasped Slit's hand tight, remembering how he had dreamt about this so many times, how he had worked out the words in advance. When he was younger, he had planned something wild, a grand gesture, something that would be remembered by all, but now that he was older and wiser, he knew Slit would despise him for it. 

So here, it was, really happening, and all he had were simple words, eloquent in their simplicity, Nux hoped, but he knew could offer no more without offending Slit.

“Slit. Let's ride together, always. For the rest of our half-lives,” Nux smiled.

“Fine.” To his surprise, Slit blinked, eyes briefly bright with tears.

Polite applause broke out among the War Boys, quickly turning into cheering.

“Tran, you owe me a food bar!” Across the room, Coil leapt up onto his feet, pointing at his fellow Half-life Noble. “Told you that's why Morsov went.”

“Rusted out piece of... Take it and choke on it!”

*****

The new Imperator gave them their wheel blank; just the empty circle and a central bar, forged from plain steel, still shiny and new from its making. Together, Nux and Slit took it reverently with both hands gripping the unfinished wheel. Soon after, War Boys came by with pieces and parts, found and hoarded makings that everyone traded, bartered, or gifted. A metal gas cap, some delicate chrome tubing, a gleaming unscratched lens, the push-handle of an old machine, as well as many other parts from other crews, a wealth of generosity from their fellow War Boys. But the most surprising gift of all was from the Ace.

“Been holding onto this for a while now.” The Ace came last, after everyone else had gone, and it seemed to Nux that the Ace wanted some discretion.

Nux and Slit glanced at each other curiously. Unfolding the clean shop cloth, Nux's breath caught at the beauty of the fertility face, round with fat, beautiful and smooth-skinned, the slight ridge of an injection-moulded plastic seam still visible on its ageless face. Ancient and knowing, with kind lips pursed in a curious smile and a faintly scarred face, it stared at them with one glass-blue eye, the other long since lost.

“Ace, this is too much,” Nux said breathlessly; this was something that was beyond the means of most War Boys, a rare and valuable piece. Running his hand over the cold contours of the face, Nux wondered how the Ace had come about it, and if perhaps the Ace had received it from the late Imperator Acosta.

The Ace shook his head. “Been meaning to give you this for your first drive Nux, ever since you survived the open waste. You...and I mean both of you, so don't sulk at me, Slit...both of you are the best of my cohort, doin me proud every day.” The Ace's mouth tightened briefly. “You'll make a fine team, long as you keep workin hard and workin together.”

Slit was silent beside Nux, and his hand wandered to the fertility face's scarred left cheek, touching it lightly.

“We'll do you proud, Ace. Swear by the Immorta.” Nux grinned, and he embraced the Ace, kissing his rough-scarred cheek.

“Ah, wouldn't expect less of you.” 

“Slit,” Nux murmured to Slit, speaking low under his breath. “Thank the Ace.”

“Hmm? Distracted, Slit looked away from the doll's head and met the Ace's eye. Hesitantly, he embraced the Ace as Nux had, and pressed his lips lightly to the Ace's cheek.

“Thanks,” Slit mumbled, as the Ace patted his back firmly.

*****

Slit's hand was cold, clammy, and when Nux peeked over, he noticed that Slit kept his eyes downcast the entire time, staring at his boots.

The words were minimal, terse; Nux had been to more than a few of these pairing ceremonies in the past and thought that the new Imperator was rather laconic compared to Acosta who sometimes had a tendency to drone on about mutual responsibilities and teamwork. 

The embrace was barely more than cursory; Slit let Nux touch their lips together in the briefest, most impersonal manner before turning his head away and yet the softness of Slit's lips was a strange contrast to the cool steel of the staples that brushed Nux's cheek. It happened quickly, without much ceremony, and it was a testament to Nux's popularity that so many people cheered them on; the wheel shrine was packed to the brim with War Boys who had come to wish them well.

The walk to the car seemed unnaturally long through the winding stone corridors lit fitfully by the electricals; though many had offered to join the shivaree, Nux had intentionally kept it small for Slit's sake if nothing else, knowing that Slit would not have appreciated it. In fact, he had wiped the dust off the windows himself, to keep them from leaving the customary messages of well-wishes and smutty jokes; Nux didn't want to upset Slit.

“Good luck,” Morsov mouthed silently to Nux, and Nux nodded, though he knew that Slit was watching.

With exaggerated casualness, Nux set the wheel and sat down on the reclined seat. He placed his hand lightly on Slit's top belt, and Slit moved of his own accord, sitting on Nux's lap and closing the car door behind them.

Morsov was the last to leave, briefly meeting Nux's eyes as he turned to go, glancing back before exiting the shop.

“So that's that,” Nux said briskly, “and then it's just a matter of presents and did you know? The work's done on the body and I got permission for us to take the car out tomorrow with a few other cars for a swing around the practice grounds and...”

“...right.” Slit's eyes darted away, and Nux wondered what he did to make Slit angry. Slit's hand reached for the door handle.

“Wait!” Nux grabbed for Slit's hand and fumbling, caught Slit's wrist. What are you doing?”

“Not leaving, if that's what you're worried about.” Slit growled. “Just getting your present.”

“Oh.” 

Slit got out, and gestured for Nux to follow.

 

Slit went first, making Nux hold the pieces of his bracer together while he soldered the joins shut with that delicate, craftsman's touch that always impressed Nux with the neatness and accuracy of the work.

“You know, I don't think anyone else would ever think to bring a soldering iron to their first night as a new crew...” Nux laughed a little nervously. “Don't you want to be able to take that off?”

“No.” Slit felt at cooling metal with his fingertips. “I mean to never be unarmed again.” With a sharp motion of his left hand, a blade snapped out.

“Wow, that's impressive. Nice design.”

“Rictus has something like this. Thought I'd make my own,” Slit said dismissively.

“That'll give you a mean left hook.”

“Meaner.” Slit retracted the blade. 

“You know...” Nux ran his fingers over the threaded screw nuts of the bracer, covering each knuckle. “This reminds me that I never asked how you...um. What happened when you were on that bad run.”

“Got knocked off the patrol car mid-fight,” Slit muttered, pulling his hand away. “Musta hit my head. Woke up with some Bandits doing...” 

“Doing what?”

Slit glared. “None of your business.”

“Is that how your eye got--”

Ignoring him, Slit gestured for Nux to give him his hand. “Your turn. Right arm.”

“Slit, you know I can't have anything that would interfere with my driving...”

“It won't. This wouldn't either. I'm not a fool; I thought ahead.” Slit gave Nux a look of disgust. “Right arm.”

“Slit...it'd be nice to be able to take it off if I...oh.” And Slit brought out a bracelet, of fine leather with polished brass fittings.

“Made this for you.” Slit looked away. “Thought it'd look good.”

“Slit, it's shine.” 

“Right arm.” Slit gestured, and Nux held out his hand.

It fit perfectly around Nux's wrist, with a little extra give so as not to irritate him. 

“Oh, that's why...”

“Hmm?” Slit buckled the bracelet to Nux's wrist.

“The other night. I wasn't asleep yet, and you were holding my arm...I wasn't sure what you were doing, but you were measuring my wrist, weren't you?”

“You were just dreaming.” Slit muttered, letting go of Nux. “If I wanted to measure you, I would have waited until you were sleeping. You sleep like the dead.”

“Right. I must have been dreaming.” Nux smiled, and took Slit's hand. “Let's get back in the car and I'll show you what I have for you.”

Slit nodded, letting Nux lead the way.

 

“Remember when we were War Pups?” Nux began, and then noticing Slit's mismatched eyes on him, Nux stopped, shutting his mouth, unsure of how to proceed.

“What am I supposed to remember?” 

“Well. Um, here, first take this. I thought you'd like a new knife,” Nux said, handing Slit the leather-sheathed blade.

Slit nodded his approval, unsheathing it and running his fingertip over the edge, testing the sharp steel before putting it away and strapping it to his leg. “Thanks.”

“And...there was something else. It's not that great of a gift but...” Sheepishly Nux dug his hand into his valuables pocket. “When we were little and then I lost my hex key and you...here, just take it.”

Nux pulled out both hex keys and handed Slit the new one, the old one tarnished from years of the touch of his hands. 

Slit turned the hex key around between his fingers, the metal warm still from the heat of Nux's body.

“Didn't think you remembered that.”

“I can't help it,” Nux said softly. “I remember pretty much everything. But even if I didn't...that's an important memory to me, Slit.”

“Don't get all feelsy on me.” Slit mumbled under his breath. “I just did it so you'd stop crying, you little baby.”

Nux reached out cautiously, touching Slit's shoulder lightly. “You're welcome.”

To his surprise, Slit turned his head and kissed him.

“What was that for?”

“Aren't we a crew now?” Slit glared. “Isn't this what you want?”

“Is that why your white's a day old?” Nux ran his hand over Slit's shoulder, surprised; Slit usually reapplied every day to keep people from touching him, but the white stayed unsmeared as he ran his fingers over Slit's cool skin.

“Don't make a big deal out of it.” Slit muttered, and the words were almost indecipherable.

“You're right. This is what I wanted.” Nux shifted, moving down to meet Slit on the floor of the Morris Minor, but even as he did so, he could feel Slit tense away from him. “But...not what you wanted?”

Slit looked away, glaring at a metal strut. “There's something I want to know first.”

Nux sighed, but then made an effort to be patient. “What's that?”

“Morsov.”

“W-what about Morsov?” Nux chuckled nervously. “He's not my Lancer anymore. In fact, he wasn't even officially my Lancer. Just temporary, under emergency orders.”

“The two of you...”

“Hmm?”

“I know. I heard that the two of you went off in the car a few nights in a row. Didn't go back to the nest before morning.”

Nux swallowed. “Slit, it wasn't like that. He...just needed to talk. And I did too. You were poorly, in the infirmary...”

“What was it like...no, never mind. I don't want to know,” Slit scowled and turned away, with that old self-conscious habit of hiding the old scar on the right side of his face, and Nux smiled a little, charmed.

“You're jealous.”

Mismatched eyes burning with anger, Slit turned on him. “Never.”

“Right. Of course not. That's silly. There's nothing for you to be jealous of.” Nux drew Slit close, feeling Slit relax minutely, with a sly, secret smile to himself hidden against Slit's chest. “But if you must know, it was just once. It was...well, fine I suppose. But I think he likes his crewmates rougher.” Nux frowned a little at the memory. “I don't think I can really do it for Morsov. He. Um. He has strange needs...”

“I don't want to hear it,” Slit's eyes were everywhere else but on Nux.

“You asked.” Nux ran the palm of his hand down Slit's smooth bicep. “Come on, forget about it. We drove past that point ages ago; can't even see it out the back window anymore. It won't happen again, promise. It's not like that between me and Morsov, never has been. You know that. You're the only one I want.”

But with those words, he could feel Slit draw away, so Nux hefted himself back onto the driver's seat, lying back down. Slit said nothing more, so Nux closed his eyes.

 

It was completely dark when the touch of insistent lips woke him; the last of the lanterns must have gone out. The moment of disorientation upon waking passed quickly when Nux felt the familiar press of Slit's skin against his own.

“Slit...?” Nux's hands closed around Slit's waist as Slit eased himself on top of him. “What...”

Slit didn't immediately answer him, but kissed him again, surprisingly soft lips and the incongruous touch of tough scar tissue brushing against his cheek.

“Shut up, Nux.” 

Nux ran his hands slowly over the tight muscles of Slit's back, his waist, the smooth, firm curve of his buttocks, sliding the flat of his palms down over Slit's slender hips, and Nux paused briefly, surprised.

“What? What's wrong?” Slit muttered, his voice a harsh whisper in Nux's ear.

“N-nothing.” Nux kissed Slit again, this time deeply, to cover up his hesitation, but his hands continued their journey over the sides of Slit's bare thighs, feeling the traces and whorls of scar tissue, of healing scabs, of wounds that had been hidden beneath Slit's trousers and how long had Slit been hiding this from him? And how extensive were the wounds? That seemed to run over every fingerlength, every square centimeter of Slit that he touched. 

Very gently, Nux traced the scars and scabs with his fingers, careful not to hurt Slit as Slit shuddered above him, the pain seemingly a pleasing goad to his Lancer and

Nux took a deep breath, and just faintly caught the copper-metallic scent of blood.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check tags for warnings.

Morsov came late to the Lancer's workshop; the fitting had already begun. He slipped in through the doorway while the Blackthumbs were busy talking, making his way over to the Ace, who gestured for Morsov to sit beside him on the chipped stone bench. 

“Here, check the balance.” With both hands, the broad-built Blackthumb held the metal arm steady for Furiosa while she adjusted the straps around her waist. “We managed to bring it down about a deka since the last fit; don't know if it can get any lighter than this though.”

“I'll manage with whatever you manage.” Furiosa rotated the stump of her arm in the pliable leather sheath. 

“How's the fit?” Stonker asked. “Made it a little tighter, just like you asked. Adjusted the waist straps too, shortened them a little.” The tall, lanky War Boy loomed beside the stout Blackthumb, giving the leather sheath around the stump of her arm a tug to straighten it. He glanced over at Morsov, trying to catch Morsov's eye but Morsov had looked away, turning to the Ace.

“Ace?” Morsov whispered. “Who's the Blackthumb? Don't remember the name.”

“Rose,” the Ace replied.

“What kind of a name is that?”

“Means she Rose high in the ranks, top of the heap of Revheads. Shopbound; too heavy to be a Driver or Lancer, which is a real shame. Ah well, Fury Road don't choose everyone, that's for certain.”

“Didn't know that...guess I haven't been paying attention to the line.” Morsov stared at the heavy-set Blackthumb, admiring her thick arms and waist, at the delicious, fetching fat along her sides. “Imperator's lucky to be waited on by such a handsome War Boy.”

The Ace's mouth flattened in admiration, accentuating his crooked jaw. “We're all lucky to be able to watch a top Blackthumb at work...”

“Good work on the weld, Slit. The central post is holding firm, looks like it can handle the weight of the hand and fingers,” Nux fiddled with the hand, checking the connections under the bright light of the airshaft.

“Just made the connection,” Slit said, raising his voice to be heard. “Welding was easy. Didn't do the hard work like calculating the balance.” He looked pointedly at Rose.

“You're sure right about that, Lancer,” Rose chuckled. “Weld's a beauty though, can hardly see the join.”

Nux touched the metal joints of the fingers lightly. “Imperator, try moving the fingers, one at a time. Thumb first.” Behind Nux, Slit watched with an intense, studied look of indifference on his face. It was an expression that Morsov recognized as concern; he knew Slit had assembled some of the actuators as Nux's assistant.

The thumb moved with a tiny click, fractionally at first before sliding forward to touch the first finger, and Nux beamed. “Okay, okay. Try the next finger...good. Now the last...” Nux frowned. “That one tends to stick. Still knocking out the dents between the sensors and the actuators.”

“The action is too slow on that finger,” Furiosa shook her head. “The response time is a beat too late.”

“We'll tune it up for you, have it fully ready soon,” Rose said. “We'll see if we can take off any more weight. Give us maybe two days, no more than three. Got this mech crew working hard; they're doing a good job. It's getting done much faster than I thought. All right then Imperator, one last balance check. Gonna let go of the arm.” 

“All right, that's fine.” Furiosa nodded. “I want to see how heavy it really is.”

“Careful...” Rose eased her hands off the limb, one at a time, and when Furiosa was confronted with the full weight of the arm, it pulled her briefly off-balance, causing her to stumble.

“Furiosa!” Morsov found himself up on his feet, ready to catch her, but she was too far away and besides, Stonker and Rose had steadied her already, keeping her from tipping over.

The Ace gave Morsov's elbow a tug, drawing him back to sit and Morsov cringed, flustered, hotly embarrassed.

Furiosa glanced over at Morsov and caught his eye, giving him a nod of appreciation that made him feel hot to the center of his belly.

“That was something of a surprise.” Shakily, Furiosa raised the arm and then lowered it, moving it around with concerted effort before letting it droop to her side. “All right, thank you for the fitting. See to it that the fine-tuning comes along quickly; we're due to run Bartertown soon and I'll need some time to adjust to the arm before we head out.” 

“Yes Imperator.”

“Right away.”

Awkwardly, Furiosa began to unbuckle the leather supporting straps about her waist. Once she was freed from the device, Rose took the metal limb, carrying it over to the metal table where Nux was pulling out his tools.

 

Morsov sighed, his forearms resting against his trousers, feeling his top belt digging into the skin of his belly as he leaned forward, but the irritation was minor and seemed almost like a measure of relief to his foolish thoughts, the sharp surge of jealousy that irritated like a coarse grain of sand underneath his skin. He was at best a competent Revhead, but not a gifted one such as Nux; no one would ever invite him to join a mech crew like the arm build crew headed by the Blackthumb Rose, not even as an assistant. Not even an assistant of an assistant, if such a thing existed.

He had been a decent Lancer, but had never been on a long-standing crew like the other Half-life Nobles. The Ace of course, was incomparable, but the others, they were War Boys with thousands more days of experience than him. Unlike their prestigious places on the line, he had mostly ridden the despised daily patrol, the lowest of the low, riding escort only a few times and even then only as a midfielder, never as the frontrunners, not like Coil and Tran's crews were. And besides, Morsov thought, the Imperator would never look his way; even if they were now on the same crew, she had a former crewmate by her side that had ridden both Driver and Lancer for her and was taller and was never a Bu-

“Morsov.”

“Huh?” Surprised, Morsov looked up as he felt the Ace's arm press warmly around his shoulders.

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Don't look like nothing,” the Ace kept his voice low. “You sure you're okay?”

Morsov was silent for a moment as he thought through his reply. “Just...just wish I could help, that's all. Can't do anything that shine...” Morsov stared at his scuffed and battered boots. 

“Ah, is that all?” The Ace gave Morsov's shoulder a squeeze. “Tell you what. Maybe you can't help with the arm, but there is something you can do.” 

“Yeah? What's that?” 

“Custom says a Half-life Noble is allowed to leave his mark.”

“Mark? What's that mean?”

“Means you can do something for the War Rig. A decorative piece, some bit of weld work, an enemy skull, somethin like that. As a sign of respect to our Furiosa.”

“Um.” Morsov felt his ears heat up at the suggested intimacy of that name. Our Furiosa.

“Don't you do all that drawin? Auto paintin and such? Remember when you first learned it, back a couple War Games ago,” The Ace clapped his back. “I'm sure you can think of something that'd do her honor.”

“I...”

“Ace?” A new voice interrupted.

Morsov looked up; it was Furiosa herself, and he smiled to himself, admiring the clear determination in her eyes, her easy authority over them as though she had been born to the head of the line.

“Something you need me for?” Ace asked.

“Yes, I need some help training my arm and shoulder stronger,” Furiosa said, cupping her left bicep. “The training I've been doing isn't enough to manage the new arm; we'll have to do more.”

“Sure thing, Imperator.” The Ace gave Morsov's head a fond pat before letting him go. “You think about what I said, Morsov.”

Morsov looked up and nodded as the Ace stood to leave with the Imperator.

“What are you going on about?” Furiosa asked as they walked away. “Are you planning something?”

“Me? Pshaw, never!” 

The two laughed as they left the shop, Furiosa leading the way, and the Ace turned back to wink at Morsov when he knew Furiosa wasn't looking.

*****

Tired after an evening of struggling with a fussy actuator and some even fussier sensors, Nux finally started putting his tools away, his eyes burning with exhaustion.

“Those screwdrivers don't go there,” Slit muttered, and Nux caught himself trying to put the set of miniature tools in his food pocket.

“Oh. Oops.” Nux corrected himself, putting the bundle away properly. “Right. Well, good work today, Slit.” 

“Like you could do it without me.” Slit carefully wound the electrical cord of the soldering gun, putting the still-warm tool away. “You were never that great at welding or soldering. Anything that involves joining metals, you might as well put it directly in the trash.”

“Hey, I'm not that bad. I'm just not as good as you.” Nux stifled a yawn. “You're better at a lot of things, you know. Like being a Lancer. Or drawing. Which reminds me, there's something I did want to ask...”

“Hmm?”

Glancing around to ascertain that no one had returned to the shop at the last minute, Nux stepped forward boldly, pressing his hand lightly against Slit's trousers, flat against his upper thigh where he knew there were some half-healed wounds. Ever since that first night together in the car, Nux had kept eyes on Slit's every movement, looking for signs of Slit carving his self-art. Nux knew that Slit knew he was watching, but so far he had never managed to figure out when Slit was doing the work on himself; it must have been after Nux was asleep or before he woke up, was Nux's only guess.

Slit's breath hissed at the pressure of Nux's hand, and his features crinkled in the briefest expression of pain, mingled with a unmistakable look of arousal, of pleasure.

“You still aren't tired?” Slit raised his eyebrows. “You wanna go to the car and...”

“Um, no. I'm tired.” Nux stammered. “It's not that, it's...well, I thought. That is. Erm. Okay, so I was thinking that maybe. Maybe? You'd like some brands done? Like somewhere else? Maybe on your chest? Your back? Something you can show off?”

Slit's eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to say?”

“I like your work. I really do. Not just the welding. I like your drawings. They're really good,” Nux smiled. “But you know how it is, Slit. Stuff you do with a knife, with cutting the skin...you can't really show off...I mean, you are basically hiding what you've done...” Seeing Slit's expression change, Nux spoke quickly. “And I thought you might like it if you could get a brand or two that everyone could admire. Something notable, to show everyone how great of a Lancer you are. Something shine.”

“Hmm.”

“So I thought, maybe why don't we ask Morsov? He's good at it; didn't Stonker ask him for that 3/4 profile of the engine block on his chest? That was quite chrome. And you know, I'm getting more bars now as a Driver and remember when you used all your extra to pay for my initiation training? Back when I was still a Revhead? Never paid you back proper, so I could pay for this, if you wanted. And why not? I think you'd look good wearing a new brand...”

Slit studied Nux's expression. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Nux chuckled nervously. “Just came to mind recently, that's all.”

“I can tell you've thought this through. Every angle. You won't let this go, will you? Not until I do something that you think is...acceptable.” Slit's mismatched eyes glared at Nux from the twisted snarl of his scarred face.

“Um. If you want me to, I'll do anything. Most anything. Slit, you know that. But.”

“But?”

“I'm...worried about you, that's all.” Wincing, Nux stared at his boots, waiting for Slit's anger.

But to his surprise, Slit sighed. “Fine. I'll think about it. But not right now. I'm going to bed down. It's too late to make decisions like this.”

“Oh. Okay!” Boldly, Nux took Slit's cool hand and was pleasantly surprised that his Lancer didn't pull away; that meant Slit wasn't upset...at least, not seriously. “So tomorrow, let's decide on how we should decorate the car; do you think red-wrapped thunder sticks might be a good look?”

“Don't be stupid; who'd give you red? That'd double, triple the cost of production. And for what, something we might lose in battle? Give me a plain color any day...”

*****

“Ah...” Her first properly leisurely wash-up since her accident, and Furiosa felt like a snake sloughing off its old skin, wriggling out tender and soft from its opaque shell of grimy white. 

“Hmm? What's that?” Coil asked, glancing over as he scrubbed himself off.

“Nothing.” Furiosa turned a little, away from him, so he would not see her lost hand, and set to awkwardly scrubbing herself with the bit of tar soap, its clean petroleum stink a joy to her nose. Vaguely she remembered that the soap she had grown up with was green, like the dark green leaves of the olive tree that it was made from, and she remembered that the smell was clean to her nose, but what the exact smell was, she could not remember; it was a long time ago.

“You...want some help?”

“No, don't bother.” Feeling his eyes on her, Furiosa tensed.

“Really, it's not a bother. I don't mind.”

“No. I'm fine.”

“I could hold the soap for you, if you like. It's no bother at all.”

“No.”

Frustrated, Furiosa scrubbed hard at lingering traces of faded white in the dry creases of skin on the backs of her elbows, the right being much harder than the left; she had to carefully hold down the soap against her bent knee and twist to rub her right elbow against the soap. A War Boy might not be bothered to clean every whitened crease, as more white would be applied anyhow, but as Imperator, she could no longer wear the white.

She set the soap aside and scooped up handfuls of the cool water, rinsing herself off, briefly forgetting she had only one hand to use, but not knowing what to do with the other arm, whether it should try to mimic her movements or force it to stay still. 

“Isn't it rather difficult to scoop water that way?”

“I said I'm fine.” 

Frowning to herself, she remembered that she had to work to strengthen her left side, she let it mimic the movements of her right hand, not caring how ridiculous it looked. One-handed, it took more than twice as long to rinse off.

“So. Worked with Morsov for the first time today. We went under the hood of the War Rig and did a superficial inspection together,” Coil said, almost to himself. “He's a good choice, Imperator.”

“Thanks.” Furiosa's lips tightened in a line. Wasn't she still just a War Boy, even with a new job? To her, it felt like nothing much beyond the white had changed. “Don't...don't call me that.”

“That's what you are.”

She could feel his eyes on her back, but she refused to turn to face him. 

“I know what I am.” Furiosa couldn't tell him that it wasn't because she didn't want the title; it was that she knew she didn't deserve it, that she wasn't qualified. That it was an accident, that it should have been the Ace who took the Imperator's fallen wheel, had the Ace himself not fallen. That the only reason she took the wheel was because as a Driver, she outranked Morsov by a bare fingerwidth. “Never mind, it's not important. But you don't have to call me Imperator. Especially not when it's just the two of us.”

“Oh. All right.” Cleaned off, Coil eased himself down into the water, looking up at the green light filtering in through the bars above their heads. Delicate, hairy tendrils of roots reached down through the bars, thirsty for the water just beyond their grasp.

Furiosa sat down beside Coil on the submerged ledge, letting the water soothe her, and it felt good on her scarred, aching limb. Glad he was on her right, she carefully touched the stump, cupping the limb in her palm.

Days were growing shorter and in a few weeks the brief warm season would be no more than a pleasant memory. Soon it would be too cold to sit in the water like this, even with the waste heat from the ironworks warming the catchment. But that wouldn't be an issue if she couldn't drive, Furiosa thought. If she couldn't handle the new hand. Because then she'd be junked, let go like so much useless scrap into the waste with the Wretched and the other crippled War Boys, a fate that she had been putting off for ages and ages now, ever since she was expelled from the Immortan's Tower.

Resolved to enjoy the deliciously cool water as best she could, Furiosa closed her eyes and forced herself to relax.

“You seem better. I'm glad for it.” Coil spoke, interrupting her reverie. “When you were poorly...”

Furiosa swallowed hard, a cold, sick feeling shivering her body, the memory of those days of fever and delirium, days of suffering and pain. There were times that she had been sure that he was there by her side, stroking her grown-out hair, tucking the blanket around her shoulders, dragging her up to sit leaning so that she could eat and drink, but that could have just as easily been the Ace. Furiosa could not remember it clearly enough to be certain. She wanted to believe that it was Coil who had come to her, to nurse her when she could not even sit up by herself to drink despite her thirst, but she never knew for certain.

And she realized that she didn't want to know; she knew she could never look at him again if he had said no, that it was not him. So she didn't ask.

Furiosa changed the topic before he could say more. “You don't seem like you've been well either. You've lost flesh...”

“Ah, that.” Coil managed a weak smile. “Nothing serious; I'm not ill. No lumps or fevers. Just working too hard lately, that's all. Lot of cars and captives to process after the war, and a lot of extra work now that the rota's shorter. Everyone's been busy. Suppose I just don't take it as well as the others.”

“Oh.” And that was something she hadn't thought of, that perhaps he might have been sick. Nervously, she looked him over, looking for hints of the lumps, but no, the column of his throat was as healthy as ever, though darkened from his growing beard. “Make sure you stay in good health. I need you at your best.”

“Of course.”

“And shave. I should cut my hair too.” She touched her scalp, feeling the soft fuzz of her hair beneath her fingers, and oddly, Furiosa was reminded of touching Coil's hair, tickling soft beneath her palms before she took the razor to it.

“I like how it looks.” Coil smiled at her, blue eyes wistful, but she never noticed, staring at the stump of her arm, feeling the cramped and aching fingers that were no longer there. 

“It has to come off.” Without another word, Furiosa got out of the water.

*****

“Hope I'm not hurting you.” Morsov traced the touched up scars with his index finger, smearing them with a healing balm of clear petroleum jelly, making certain that every turn of the brand, every line was carefully sealed against infection.

“Nah,” Stonker grinned, setting his gloved hands lightly on Morsov's shoulders. “Couldn't hurt me, least, not this way.”

Morsov blinked; it was a strange thing to say, and so he thought perhaps it was an esoteric turn of phrase, some idiom that he hadn't heard before; the lingua franca was full of strange sayings that were rarely used, sometimes so unusual that even War Boys argued over the meaning.

“Morsov, this actually feels good. You've got a light touch, so it barely hurts. Even when you're doing the branding. It's times like this that make me wish you hadn't chosen to ride with someone else; I thought we would have made a great crew. You know, I used to ask your cohort after you. It's a shame our roads didn't cross as much as they could have.”

“It's no big trouble...” Embarrassed, Morsov winced, stumbling on his words, intentionally ignoring Stonker's references to the past when Morsov was a new Lancer being courted left and right by Drivers. He remembered Stonker as being one of the Drivers the Ace had recommended, back when the Ace was trying to change his mind about riding with Elvis but in those days before Morsov made his mistake, Stonker drove nothing chrome, just another single-lancer vehicle out of many. Morsov quickly changed the subject. “Look, just keep it clean for a few days, like last time, and it'll be very okay.”

“I'm glad it was you. Even if we can't ride together, this'll remind me of you,” Stonker smiled at Morsov, as he touched the skin around the brands lightly. “No one else around does work like this, and this good.”

“Um.” Morsov realized he was being addressed in the intimate. That had to be an accidental slip of the tongue, but then Stonker did it again.

“I really like how you've given it dimension. I think it's interesting that the important parts have deeper ridges than others, and the less important parts are graven lighter. Tell me what you want for it, Morsov. I'll pay anything you like.”

“Oh no, it's fine,” Morsov waved it off. “Don't do this for pay, it's just for fun.”

“Really, Morsov,” Stonker said, exasperated. “You can't just do all this work for free. I insist.”

“Th-this is just a hobby. Not like those War Boys who do this to make extra. Besides, what'd I use extra for? Don't really need many anythings.”

“Right. On your Half-life Noble salary. Almost forgot you're riding much higher these days.” Stonker squeezed Morsov's shoulders with his strong, firm Driver's grip. “I'm warning you though, if you don't let me pay you, I'm going to do something for you.”

“Um.” Morsov blinked. “It's fine; you don't have to do anything...”

Quickly, Stonker glanced around, and confused, it made Morsov turn to look too, to see if someone had come into the shop, and it distracted him enough for Stonker to lean down to steal a kiss. It was no more than a chaste press of lips, but it seemed to make Morsov feel strangely dizzy, light-headed, until he realized that he was holding his breath.

Morsov took a deep, gulping breath.

“Wh-what...what what?”

“A promise.” Stonker met Morsov's eyes with a deeply serious look. The tall War Boy's eyes were a light brown, almost golden, clear in his undarkened eye sockets, and Morsov wondered if he had noticed that before. “I'm doing something for you, and that's that.”

“You don't have to.”

“I know. But I want to.” Stonker gave him a lopsided grin, standing up to go. “Thanks for the work. By the way?”

“Y-yeah?”

“You're real cute when you forget the lingua,” Stonker waved as he left.

Dazed, Morsov stared at his branding tools, so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice Nux and Slit enter the shop.

“Oi! Morsov!” Nux greeted him warmly. Morsov jerked up, startled.

“Did...did you see that? Any of that?” Morsov gestured in the direction of the vehicle entry, the way Stonker had left from. Nux shrugged, and Slit rolled his eyes.

“See anything? See what? Just got here, _Morsov_ ,” and it was interesting to Morsov how Slit could somehow make his name sound like a curse word, just from his tone of voice.

“Ah. Okay.” Morsov was deeply relieved that they hadn't seen Stonker kiss him. “So you sure you want me to do the work? I have the design but you know, maybe you don't like...” 

“Lemme see.” 

Morsov handed Slit the slateboard with the chalked design. Slit picked up the chalk and studied the image, deconstructed transmission gears and gearshaft, making a few corrections with the chalk, noting things that he wanted.

“You want me to do the whole thing at once?” Morsov asked, but Slit shook his head.

“One piece at a time. I don't want you to rush and mess it up,” Slit said. 

“Sure. That's no problem. Makes it easier for me.” Morsov switched the modified soldering iron back on, watching the metal tip slowly heat up.

“Oh, you upgraded from a knife?” Nux asked. 

“Yeah, traded for the parts to make my own rig,” Morsov smiled. “First thing I did with my new bars.” 

“Must be nice making more without having a car to suck up all the extra,” Nux said. “There's some stuff I'd trade for if I had extra, but it'd just be for the car.”

Morsov laughed it off, not wanting to seem immodest, “Oh, you know, gotta spend it while I can. I've heard a lot of Half-life Nobles don't make it past their first Bartertown run.'

“You scared?” Slit asked.

“Course not.” Morsov knew those words were mostly bravado, but he also knew that Slit could not understand what he was truly afraid of; not of death and Valhalla – there was nothing to fear from that – but Morsov knew that the only thing he truly feared was failing his new crew, that somehow he'd be turned off for incompetence, for mediocrity. For not having what it took to ride high on the War Rig. But Slit could not understand that; Slit was sometimes no better than a feral, for all his airs.

It made Morsov secretly glad that in the long run, he had won their rivalry. Even if he had lost that place in the line to Slit years ago as a War Pup, that didn't mean that Slit had come out ahead; Morsov was far ahead in the line now, and there was no amount of War Boys that Slit could fight for position to get that high up.

“Anyway, is the tip hot enough yet?” Nux interrupted, and Morsov knew that Nux had distracted them intentionally, to forestall a fight.

“Oh right, yeah. Let's get this ready. Here, sit over with your back facing me. Oh good, you cleaned off the white there...”

Slit muttered something under his breath, but Nux punched his arm, pointing to the stone bench. Slowly and deliberately, Slit sat down, baring his back to Morsov.

“Here, right? Starting a fingerwidth below here.” Morsov made a tiny mark to Slit's pale skin with the naturally black petroleum jelly, the kind they used to darken their eyes and brow. Morsov could feel Slit's skin flinch under his touch, and he knew that Slit must have hated doing this, letting someone other than Nux touch him. “And just above here.”

“Yeah.” 

“Don't move, okay?”

“Course I won't.” Slit took a deep breath.

Glancing up, Morsov noticed that Nux had taken Slit's hand. Smiling a little to himself, he started, pressing the hot tip of the iron to the ridge of spine between Slit's shoulders.

Slit's breath hissed through his teeth as the pain seared away his troubles.

*****

Furiosa lifted the modified and weighted gearshaft with her good hand, muscles shaking from the effort, the Ace gripping the ends lightly with both hands for balance, steadying it as she did one more shaky repetition before setting it down with a sigh.

“What's so amusing?” Furiosa noticed the Ace's wry expression. “I know I've lost flesh and have to gain it back. But is it really that bad?”

“No, no. It ain't you. Just thinkin,” the Ace shrugged. “Bout bein a kid...a pup. Well, more 'n a pup, what we'd call a young Revhead these days. Just thinkin of what Acosta would have said to this, to liftin weights.”

“What would he have said?”

“He and I, we'd probably have said the same thing: If you wanna work that bad, there's the rock face and here's the pickaxe and the bucket; take one and have at it.” The Ace shook his head. “None of us ever did extra like this in the old days; there was already too much to do.”

“The privilege of being young,” Furiosa said, a touch of bitterness to her expression. “Privileged in other ways too.”

“Yeah?”

“Like our ability to stand on the shoulders of giants. The men before us who worked hard for our sake so that we didn't have to work nearly as hard.” Furiosa stared at the weight.

“Not giants and not even men; just kids in the wrong place and time.” The Ace stared at his black-stained hands. “Let's take a rest.” He sat down on a nearby stone bench with a huff of exhaustion, his hand pressed habitually to his side as he had been doing in these long days of convalescence, as if he could knit together healing bones by sheer willpower and the pressure of his own palm. The Ace looked around the abandoned auto shop, tucked away far from the usual bustle of the warren, where Furiosa could train without interruption, without hinting to any of the others as to any signs of weakness. Dust had settled on most of the surfaces, clean stone dust admixed with soot that clung to the inside of the Citadel wherever movement stilled, and here the electricals didn't work very well, but they gave enough light to work by.

“Do you miss...?” Furiosa wondered, but then she closed her mouth, unwilling to press the issue.

“Did you want to ask something?” The Ace kept the query open, giving her space to sort out her thoughts.

Furiosa glanced at the Ace, at the gray eyes darkened with pain and loss, and thought of the vague and faraway look that occasionally crept into his eyes when he thought no one was looking. “Acosta was your friend.”

“Oh that? Oh, it's fine...” The Ace's mouth moved to something of a half-smile, making an effort to show that he was all right. “He's Witnessed; what more can be done? Gotta move on, get our rig out to Bartertown, that's what's important. The rest can keep.”

“It's all right to mourn a friend,” Furiosa ventured. 

“Can't do nothing about it now,” the Ace muttered. “Failed him where it mattered most, but what could we do? Orders was orders. Still, wish I could have...”

Furiosa sat very still, listening without saying a word, knowing he would speak in his own time.

“Wish I could have taken the bullets for him, that's all. Matter of principle. He'd have something to say about that, I think. But only in the abstract; don't think he'd hold it against me or any one of us for...for failing him.”

“You didn't fail him. We saved the War Rig.”

“You and Morsov.” Despite his downcast expression, the Ace sat up axle-straight, to keep his healing bones in alignment. “Couldn't be more proud of the two of you. My best mistakes.” 

“Mistakes?” Furoisa arched her eyebrow at him, as comically as she could, hoping to make him smile.

The Ace nodded, and Furiosa was rewarded with the sight of his lip quirking thoughtfully, bemused. “Maybe accidents is more like it. Picked him off the waste out of the Wretched, and took him up on a whim. And you...”

“That was a long time ago,” Furiosa said quickly, a habitual phrase that was quick to the tip of her tongue to stave off further comment, but suddenly she realized that it was strange to her that the pain of the memories seemed distant now, without as much power to hurt her. Almost like a memory of a memory, consigned to the dustbin of her experiences, memories she had purposefully discarded.

“Sure was, but don't regret it, not at all. Even though it got me in trouble with Acosta.” 

“Oh? How?”

“Put a crewmate under the wheels.” 

Immediately, Furiosa knew that he wasn't talking about her, but Morsov, about the old scandal that had seen the Ace demoted from crew lead.

“It weren't for Acosta, you know. He never would have approved it in advance, even though that was a rumor that's been going around since. He was too upright for that. It was for them pups. Can't stand seein 'em get hurt.” The Ace's expression was briefly pained, and Furiosa wasn't sure if it was the memory or the lingering ache of his healing bones that hurt him. “Did it because I knew it'd be Morsov next that'd be crippled 'n trashed. Can't tell you why; just could feel it in my bones. That crewmate...can't even remember his name anymore; pushed him out of my thoughts, same way I put him under the wheel. One sharp push. Anyway, he was gettin bolder. Hurtin the kids he was supposed to be trainin. What else could be done? Ain't no reasoning with a man like that. And Acosta wouldn't turn him off. Didn't know what else to do, so I did what I thought was right.” 

“Ace?”

“We fought over it, Acosta and I. Weren't ever the same between us after that.” The Ace frowned, deepening the already-furrowed brow. “So when you ask me if I miss him...been ages since I missed him. Even before he got Witnessed.”

“Ace...”

“Hopefully he's happy in Valhalla.” The Ace looked away. “One of the heroes of all time...”

*****

Morsov didn't have very much to move to his new nest; it was mostly his branding tools and little things like his dustwrap, which he could just as easily keep tucked away in a pocket. Early, right after a quick supper Morsov went to move, not wanting to run into his cohort or his fellow nestmates, not wanting to be caught up in the fuss and attention of his fellow War Boys. Best to get out quickly, without drawing undue attention to his promotion.

He thought he had managed it, but as he made his way toward the upper warren, Morsov heard someone calling his name.

“Morsov!”

Morsov turned, and saw that it was Stonker was chasing him down, tools jangling a dissonant tune on his hips as he ran.

“You forgot something!”

“Huh? Did I?”

“Yeah.” Stonker grinned. “And I'm sure you would have been mad at yourself if you left it behind.”

Confused, Morsov patted his pockets with his free hand, going over everything that he could have missed, but no, he had everything important that he could think of...

“Here, put your gear down for a bit. Let's talk.” Stonker gestured him over, drawing Morsov into a nearby empty workshop. Morsov set his tools down on the bench and glanced over at the car; it was the Elvis car, the one he had ridden before he was turned off. He didn't know who was driving it these days; it had changed Drivers but not the name, which seemed likely to stick on account that Elvis had been raised to Secundus, the highest position a War Boy had ever received.

Morsov sighed, looking away from the black car, shame and guilt eating at his gut at the sight of it.

“Something wrong?” Stonker asked.

“No, no. Nothing. What did I forget?” 

“Um.” Stonker hesitated. “Well. I thought I'd say that uh... thought I'd say that I'll miss you. Even though we were in different nests. Not like it made much of a difference since you're usually with your cohort and they're kind of a closed bunch but never mind that, sorry I'm rambling and maybe I should shut up but, uh. So. Now you're going far off, not really that far off but far off in terms of the warrens and I... Oh, say. Did I tell you, I'm driving this beast now?” Stonker grinned weakly, patting the frame awkwardly, his hand slipping on the first try before he properly gave it a friendly thump. “Everyone got shifted around after that the War Party. Got a vehicle upgrade in the shuffle and it's been approved by the Imperator. So I'll be fighting for frontrunner, once we start gearing up for runs again. If I can drive at top form during the tests, we'll be next to each other in the supper line.”

Morsov managed a smile. “Congratulations.”

“But...um. This isn't...it's not about me. I mean, asking you here. That is. I said I'd do something for you...on account of this.” Stonker touched his chest lightly, over his heart, where the engine block had been engraved.

“No, it's all right. I said it was fine, it's fine. You don't have to do anything for me.”

Stonker smiled, and there was a wistfulness to his expression that made Morsov's heart clench in an odd way.

“And of course, you've been promoted too,” Stonker said, “so I have something for you, that you should take with you. Now that you're riding high. Had this for ages, but...I thought you'd like it better.” Stonker dug into a pocket, and Morsov recognized it as the pocket that most people would put their valuables in, a front pocket that was generally placed in such a way that it was close at hand yet unlikely for the wearer to accidentally crush its contents.

“Really, I don't need anything...” But Stonker pressed the little metal object to his hands, and in Morsov's cold hands, it was a little spot of warmth.

“Try it.” Stonker encouraged him. “I've been keeping it oiled and polished; that's about all you have to do in terms of maintenance, and even then not very often.”

“It's geared?” Morsov blinked; touching the unfamiliar steel handle, worn and tarnished from the touch of many hands over the ages. 

“Clockwise, away from yourself,” Stonker suggested, and Morsov turned the handle.

A bright, bell-like note sounded, and surprised, Morsov stopped.

“Keep turning,” Stonker gestured.

So Morsov turned the handle, and a sweet, melancholy song played, clear plinking tones that sang of the world Before when music was everywhere and everyone walked around with a pocketful of tunes, as plenty as pebbles. Of a world that he had heard of even as a child in the darkness below the earth, where all the light he had ever seen was dim and artificial and they only came out at night, if at all, because of their sun-wary eyes. A song from a time of plenty, when people could afford to enjoy their sadness, instead of forcing those feelings aside so as to live another hour, another day. 

When the song ended, on a strange and unfinished note, Morsov played it again. In the music he could feel all the longing and loneliness he had often felt when he was on the wide Fury Road, when it seemed to him that all the wild waste was calling to him, wanting him to join it and disappear into its bright desolation, even as he longed for the warmth and safety of the darkness within the Citadel.

Silent, Morsov closed his hands around the music box. The warmth of Stonker's bodyheat had dissipated, and he was left with his own hands to warm the cool metal.

“This is beautiful. But I can't take it. It's too much.” Morsov handed the music box back to Stonker. “Sorry.”

“No, it's yours.” Stonker folded his arms against his chest. “I'm not taking it back. You're stuck with it, and that's that.”

“I can't...”

“You deserve it.” Stonker set his hands on Morsov's shoulders, and Morsov looked up at him, realizing for the first time how much taller the other War Boy was.

“No, it's...it's too lovely.” Morsov clasped Stonker's arm, giving it a squeeze as he felt himself running out of words, so he closed his mouth and tried to think through what he wanted to say. “Don't want to break it.”

“Don't worry. If it breaks, just bring me the pieces. Not like I haven't broken it myself half a dozen times already,” Stonker winked. “The gearing is easy; I could put it back together in my sleep. And if the comb gets bent, it's easy to cut a new one. Keeping it together is just solder. Look at the corners; I had it shored it up last time it fell apart.”

And there, just as the War Boy had said, were little ornamental solders, done up cleverly to disguise the fact that it was being used to reinforce the metal.

“Don't think I deserve this.” Caught between warring feelings, Morsov stared at the Elvis car as he closed his hand over the music box, and in his heart he knew he already memorized the melody.

“Then...then let's share it.”

“Share it?”

“Yeah. You hold onto it, and when I feel like listening to it, I'll come and find you. And you can play it for me. So really, you're just borrowing it. Or I'm entrusting you with holding it for me. There, that. That one. You're holding it for me,” Stonker nodded earnestly. “It's less likely to get lost with a Half-life Noble, right? You're more responsible, and you're riding up high...a single car can get lost, but the War Rig can't be lost. And if you go down, one of us driving will retrieve you and get the music box back. Drivers and Lancers...well, no one's going to stop and pick us up, not unless we're the frontrunner. And I'm not that yet, so it's not safe with me.”

“Um.” Morsov stared at the music box. “If you put it that way. I can hold it for you, to keep it safe. If that's what you want.”

“Thank you, Morsov!” Stonker threw his arms around him, kissing him on the cheek, and Morsov froze, tensed up, unsure of what to do. Quickly, Stonker let him go, patting his shoulder apologetically. “Play me the song again? I want to hear you play it. I like the rate you go; I think I always go too fast.”

“Sure.” Both relieved and oddly disappointed that the War Boy had retreated, Morsov turned the handle, feeling the gears within engage the mechanism, and the song between them played sweet and true.

 

By the time he made it back up to the Half-life Noble nest, Morsov realized that everyone else was there already.

Everyone else but for the Imperator.

The Ace waved Morsov over. “You okay? Had trouble getting away from your nestmates?”

“Something like that,” Morsov grinned, and realized he didn't want to stop smiling.

“Something good happen?”

“Nah, nothing really,” Morsov tamped down his feelings, controlling his expression, not wanting to appear silly before the Ace, but he was distracted overhearing the conversation of his new crewmates.

“Someone should go get her,” Tran gave Coil a look. “ _Someone_ who knows our new Imperator well. _Someone_ who was her Driver and her Lancer. And her crewmate. And her best mate. And her--” 

“You don't have to kick it to death with your boots,” Coil gave Tran a withering look. “I know as well as you do that someone should talk to her, but you don't understand; she doesn't want to talk to me these days. And by these days I mean since, I don't know, since perhaps two or three War Games ago when she first was raised to Driver--”

“Not my fault nor my problem that you don't know how to stroke your Driver's engine. I am just saying...”

“Tran, this is serious,” Coil glared. “If she's not going to talk to me, you or Dart don't have a chance.”

“Ask the Ace then.” 

“So ask the Ace,” Dart suggested, a beat too late, not looking up from the sand-filled nest where he stood barefoot, staring at the ground before him. The stocky Lancer had smoothed out a piece of it and was drawing some kind of puzzle with lines and dots with a long metal pole, permutations of a finite amount of connected points, none of them being the same. 

“Ask me what?” Ace looked up, hearing his name.

Coil spoke, “We were saying that we were concerned about the Imperator. Someone should go after her.”

“So go. Why are you lookin for me to do it?” The Ace wondered.

“We figured someone who she'd actually talk to might be better.”

“She'd talk with anyone. What's the big deal? Go find her yourself.”

“He means talk talk,” Tran said. “The kind of talk that she apparently doesn't do anymore with her former Lancer.”

The Ace gave Coil a puzzled look and Coil threw up his arms in exasperation. “Don't think that I haven't already tried. She's up on the maintenance walk, the upper one, and she won't come down.”

“With that new arm of hers?”

“With that new arm.” Coil shook his head.

“And you let her stay? Why didn't you tell me sooner?” Alarmed, the Ace pulled on his boots quickly and left, not bothering to dust himself off as he hurried out.

Morsov hesitated, but then he ran after the Ace, wondering what was wrong, running down the winding corridors to the central shop.

 

The Ace watched as she walked the length of the maintenance walk, one direction and then the other, her footsteps careful and sure despite the arm that dragged her off-balance. The walkway was narrow and there was railing only on one side, which she wasn't using at all to steady herself.

He found his breath catching in his throat, hitching painfully through his ribcage as she wavered briefly, but then she righted herself, stopping mid-stride. Pausing briefly, she sat down, unbuckling her arm. 

With a sigh of relief, he climbed the long ladder up to her side.

“Furiosa.” The Ace sat down beside her. “What's the rule on the car?”

“Rule of three,” she said, without thinking, and he noticed the look of surprise in her face, when she realized that he was there, and the Ace frowned, worried that she had somehow not noticed his approach, even though he knew his heavy footsteps had rattled along the heavy iron walkway.

“Didn't see you practicing that.”

“This isn't a car.”

“No, it's not. It's more dangerous here. A car's only a few hands off the ground. We're a lot more than a few hands off the ground here.”

“So?”

“What are you doing then?”

“Training.” Furiosa felt at the metal-carved teeth of her new thumb with her right hand, running the pad of her forefinger against the sharp-ridged metal.

“You train in the Lancer's workshop. Or down on the waste. Not up here.”

“Why does it even matter?”

“Because here, if you fall, you die. Or you get maimed and junked.”

“Maybe that'd be easier,” Furiosa said, looking out of the great cavern entry of the central shop, into the darkness beyond, and the glowing light that spilled out from the Vault in the Immortan's Tower. It made her suddenly remember she had promised to fix something there, but looking at her hand, she knew it would be impossible to keep that promise.

If she had been watching the Ace, she would have seen a brief instant of hot fury come across his pale eyes, but she wasn't.

The Ace took a long shuddering breath that made him wince. “I know...that you never did care for doing anything the easy way, Furiosa. Come on, let's get to bedding down for the night. Long day ahead of us. Ain't you gonna practice driving rig tomorrow?”

“Sure.” Furiosa said, and she let the Ace help her up. As she got to her feet, she looked down, and saw Morsov waiting below, watching patiently. 

He waved to her, a shy little motion of his hand, and she smiled to herself just a little, giving him a nod of acknowledgment.

“Come on, hand me that hand of yours, I'll carry it down. Could already tell from your gait that you can't handle it no more. It's too heavy for your chassis; you should have them rework it til it's lighter.”

“I'm fine. This is the best that can be done with what we have. I'll just learn to deal with it.” But she let him sling her prosthetic over his shoulder and gratefully climbed the long ladder down after him to the shop floor.

*****

“Here. Let me do that.” Nux plucked the tin of petroleum ointment from Slit's hands. “Should be putting ointment on it to help it heal faster.”

“I'm fine,” Slit growled, but he did nothing to stop Nux, who screwed open the tin and dabbed at the ointment with the tip of his pointing finger.

“Does it hurt?” Nux asked, as he ran his fingertip over the ridged flesh, glowing an angry pink underneath the light coat of white.

“Yeah. But not that bad,” Slit's breath hissed, and he seemed unusually still beneath Nux's touch.

“I don't know why they won't let me keep the Revhead crew for longer,” Nux said. “Like today, here I am stuck after hours when if I could have kept them another hour after the usual quitting time, we could have finished adjusting the play. There's too much backlash on the rack and pinion and I told them that during the first tests. They were trying to argue with me that it's within a reasonable range, but who would know better? Me or them? Right? They don't know what they're talking about. You know, now that I think of it, I bet they've already been complaining to the Half-life Nobles. And you know, Morsov, for all that he's our cohortmate, I think he'd side with them because--”

“Shut up.” 

“Huh?” Nux glanced at Slit's back; it was trembling faintly, and from what he couldn't say.

“Just shut up and put on the ointment.”

“I'm almost done, you big baby. There.” Playfully, Nux slapped Slit's back. “So anyway, I think now that--”

“Shut up.” 

“Slit, what are you going on abou-” 

And turning around, Slit caught him around the waist and kissed him hard.

“Slit?” Nux was surprised, but he understood immediately once he felt the hard jab of Slit's erection against his thigh. But once Nux put his arms around Slit, drawing him to the warm confines of the car, his black-stained hands leaving marks along the pure white of Slit's shoulder, it seemed to him that Slit retreated, drawing back, almost as if uncomfortable. Like their first time in the car, when things had gotten serious, Slit had withdrawn at the last moment, unwilling or perhaps unable to proceed.

“Just shut up,” Slit muttered, but it seemed as though somehow during the steps it took to get in the car from across the shop, Slit had lost momentum.

Not about to give up, Nux pushed the seat back with an easy, one-handed motion, reclining it flat to give them room. 

“Come on. Lancer up top,” Nux grinned, and he lay back down. He gestured for Slit, but did not try to touch him, letting Slit come to him of his own accord. 

Nux had thought about the problem quite a bit since their first night together. It occurred to him that being with Slit was much like driving, feeling for the right rhythm of shift, of clutch and throttle, knowing when to lift and coast, when to race flat out, and now he felt like he had to trust his Driver's instincts with the vehicle of Slit. 

Half of it was letting Slit feel like he was the Driver, letting him think he was in charge.

A moment's hesitation, but Nux could see the tension in Slit's body, tight as a timing belt, and Nux waited patiently for the notches to turn until they lined up and then suddenly Slit was on him, mouth hungry and feral and it was easy to let Slit think that he could dictate the pace when Nux knew that he had set it himself in the first place.

Left foot brake, just a touch, Nux thought, catching his breath, and it was followed by a quick, jumbled, and frantic blur of moving hands as they both struggled out of their tool-jangling trousers.

Nux's mouth opened to him, taking him in deep, but he grabbed Slit by the top belt with his left hand, holding him back, steadying Slit's pace so that they would go at the speed that Nux set for them, and for a moment, there was a brief panic in Slit as Slit found himself caught between desire and the fear of entrapment, between need and the firm hand gripping his top belt tight. But smiling to himself around Slit's thick, hot shaft, Nux slapped his right palm flat against those healing wounds of Slit's thigh, pain and pleasure tensing through Slit's body. The growling sound of ecstasy from deep within Slit's throat made Nux know that he had gauged right; it was like hitting the nitrous at the right moment, gaining torque and boosting his engine power.

Slit came with a helpless jerk of his hips, and Nux swallowed him down, tasting that bitter, musky taste of whatever made Slit himself. Carefully, he licked Slit clean, drawing every bit of moisture that he could from Slit's cock.

With a sigh, Slit collapsed against Nux, shifting so that his head rested exhausted against Nux's shoulder, his breath hoarse and hot against Nux's ear.

Nux said nothing, letting Slit catch his breath as he licked his own lips, tasting the lingering taste of Slit on his tongue.

There was a long, strange moment of silence as Slit dozed briefly against his shoulder, and Nux wondered why the silence was so odd, until he realized that Slit had never shown so much vulnerability to him before. Slit's chassis, not the one he was born and lived in, but the very air that he carried around him usually bristled with more spikes than a Buzzard's drive, but here for the first time, it seemed to Nux that Slit was briefly showing him the bodywork beneath, with all its dents and scratches.

Nux's fingers wandered over the threaded screw nuts of Slit's bracer, the weapon that could not be removed But his reverie was brief; hard aching desire still held him tight in its grip, and when Slit came to again, Nux pressed his palm flat against Slit's new brand and he could feel Slit's cock growing stiff against his bare thighs, ready for another lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music box is playing [Hushabye Mountain](http://www.magicalmusicboxes.com/musicbox_mp3/hushabyemountain_18.mp3).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check updated tags for warnings.

The broad tunnel was indistinct, so dark that he could barely make out the walls, but Morsov couldn't remember being light-blinded. There should be light here, enough to see by; all the tunnels had some source of light, even if it was the smallest bit of bioluminescent glowworm carefully cultivated on the high stone walls, their sticky, dangling threads too high up to be a real nuisance to all but the very tallest of the men.

He fumbled, trying to find his light in the folds of his clothing, the tiny red bulb that everyone wore around their neck, but it was gone, somehow lost. Blinking and blinking, he tried to make his eyes focus, but it seemed that the entire world was obscured and he was half-blind in the deep, underground darkness.

“Where are you hiding, fucking Schist brat?” A disturbingly familiar voice snarled, spitting angry consonants, the harsh sound echoing through the tunnel. “I paid good fuel for you and I'll be damned if I'm not getting all the use out of you I want. Get over here, now!”

Silently, he backed up deeper into the tunnel; he had no idea where it ended, but he had a vague memory that perhaps there was another cavern system and if he could just make it to connection tunnel, he could hide, could run away...

“There you are.” Suddenly the voice was close, only a few footsteps away, and despite the enveloping fog of darkness, he could see the Chert's wrapped helmet, the polished aluminum edge of the man's goggles catching the vaguest hint of light, and even in his fear, Morsov wondered why the man was wearing his waste gear inside where it was safe.

“Come here, you little bitch. On your knees-” A hard hand grabbed his wrist, wrenching it painfully and

 

With a gasp, Morsov struggled free of his dreams.

“Shh. It's all right,” someone whispered, stroking Morsov's head, as though he were still a War Pup. For a moment, he thought it was the Ace but as his sleep-blinded eyes adjusted, he realized it was someone else. Sweating and shaken, Morsov looked around the moonlit nest, trying to reorient himself. There, to his left, the Ace slept at the Imperator's back, snoring quietly. To his right was Tran and beyond, the others slept haphazardly by themselves; it was the end of the warm season, and there was no need yet to huddle together at night.

“Sorry. Did...did I wake you?” Morsov apologized, trying to ease his trembling with his breathing.

“No, it's all right, Crew. I was already awake.” Tran drew close, setting a muscled arm across Morsov's chest. 

For a moment, Morsov didn't know why Tran was doing this, but then he remembered; this was his new crewmate, and even though they were strangers to each other still, there were things that one did for one's crewmate. Or so he had heard. 

“You have a lot of bad dreams, don't you?” Tran's voice was low, hushed.

“Yeah. I guess.” Morsov took deep calming breaths, trying to get his rpm down, focusing on loosening tensed muscles. With a sigh he relaxed into the unfamiliar embrace, feeling oddly grateful for the comfort.

“Can't be helped. Not all of us are lucky enough to be Citadel princes like certain War Boys I won't name, born with the iron spoon in their hands or just too young to remember anything other than a life raised high. Lucky pups,” Tran chuckled to himself, just under his breath. “Close your eyes, Morsov, and try to get back to sleep. All of us have eyes on for you. No one's going to let anyone run you down, especially not someone from the past. Whoever he was, he can't hurt you anymore, not with us at your back.”

Tran's arm tightened around Morsov firmly, and a little unbelieving, Morsov ran his fingers over Tran's knuckles, feeling the lumpy ridges of bone beneath the skin, at that junction where the ruddy, sun-warmed color of flesh and the white ran into each other, where the boundary between the two worlds of War Boy and man blurred.

“Thanks, Driver.” Dazed, Morsov pressed his hand to Tran's, gripping it lightly before closing his eyes.

“It's just Tran. I'm not a Driver anymore; we're the same rank now.”

“Oh right. S-sorry, Tran. Thanks.”

“No worries, Morsov. Just go back to sleep.”

Once he felt Morsov was asleep again, Tran relaxed his arm, drawing away though staying close in case Morsov woke again. Shifting in the loose sand, Tran turned and stared at Dart, asleep by his side. 

But for the gentle rise and fall of the stocky War Boy's heavily-muscled chest, the cold light of the moon coming in from the airshaft painted him corpse-cold, the bleak white he wore making him appear as though he were already dead.

“Oh my Lancer. Why'd it have to be you?” Carefully, Tran touched Dart's throat lightly, feeling the growing lump as the slumbering War Boy sighed in his sleep and moved closer without waking.

*****

“Never thought I'd be doing this.” Morsov shook his head in disbelief.

“You and me both,” Dart replied, and beyond they could hear the thump and clamor, loud and ominous, the screeching of many voices.

The Ace set his hands on both their shoulders. “Only cuz there're more of 'em now than there used to be. Well, you know how this works; make sure you got each other's backs. Dart, let Morsov take point; he remembers how I taught 'em. Don't forget that you're to leave them with the assistant overnight; Imperator don't want you sleepin in their nest. Ain't like the old days.”

“Yes, Ace.”

“Of course.”

“All right, off you go and best of luck.” The Ace's eyes sparkled with amusement.

Morsov caught Dart's eye. “You ready?”

“No. How'd we get into this mess again?”

“By not ever being Drivers. So we can't train Drivers and Lancers.”

“Right,” Dart sighed. “Almost forgot about that. How long do you think we'll be stuck doing this?”

Morsov grinned. “Until one of us goes under the wheels. Or one of them.”

“Maybe that would be a better option.” They shared a moment of amusement at the dark humor, before both making the aversion sign against going under the wheels.

“It's okay, Dart. You can get used to anything.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. Like not eating meat,” Morsov winked, alluding to his past, and was rewarded by Dart's brief wince of disgust. “Come on. Ready?”

“No.”

“Too bad. Here we go. Thunder up.” Morsov stepped forward boldly, into the morass of the War Pup nest.

At least the assistant trainer had managed to keep them all in one place, but that was about as much as he could manage; the War Pups were running wild, some shrieking with delight at their little games.

Dart waded in immediately, separating a pair of squabbling boys.

“Hey!” Morsov raised his voice, trying to be heard over the clamor, but a moment later, a loud, harsh voice rang out, the voice that carried so far that it could be heard from the War Tower to the Immortan's Tower.

“Who are we?”

There was a long pause of silence, and guiltily, the children lined up, bruised and scuffed, their white streaked haphazardly.

“War Pups!” It all came in a mismatched tumble of dissonance, with no rhythm or harmony to the words, nothing more than a crowd of individuals speaking at will.

“And who's this?” The Ace pointed to Morsov.

The boys looked at each other curiously, unsure of what the right answer was.

“Lead trainer.” Morsov said, clearing his throat, pitched his voice to carry in a conscious imitation of the Ace. “Morsov, lead trainer. This is Dart, standing second. From now on, you're answering to us.”

The boys stared at each other, at Morsov, and the room fell into such a hushed silence that Morsov could hear even the smallest sniffle, the nervous scrape of a boot against the sand-strewn stone.

“Cohort to my right, Organics to the left.” Morsov gestured, and there was some awkward fumbling and pushing and even a few stumbles and falls as the pups scrambled to get in place. As he had suspected from hearing the gossip around the War Tower, the cohort was short; only three despite the multitude of nearly forty boys; that made Morsov glad he had prepared.

“Cohort, get to your jobs. The rest of you, line up for testing.”

 

“Don't envy you and Morsov,” Coil threw his arm around Dart's shoulders. “Been out here breaking in new Lancers all morning, but I heard you two have been sorting out the pups for hours.”

Dart laughed, setting his arm around his cohortmate's waist. “And that was just the testing! Almost missed the training. As it stands, we still have a handful left. Why do we have so many again?”

“War Party favors,” Coil gave Dart a squeeze. “You were there; you caught three or four yourself.”

“Oh right. Forgot about that. That felt like a long time ago.”

“Fifty, sixty-some days? Something like that. Haven't been counting that closely but it feels like forever ago. Have to say that I'm glad I don't get assigned to mop-up; being in the first sweep is much easier. You just go in picking off the fighting ones, no worrying about trying to catch anything moving. Catching the women and the little ones without breaking something seems much harder. Always wondered how you manage it.”

“Actually, it's pretty easy once you get the hang of it. You start by...” 

Morsov watched the others talk, envious of their easy camaraderie, their shared lives together in the Citadel; both Dart and Coil were Citadel-bred and knew no other life. Not like him, an outsider, made more so by being from an enemy tribe as opposed to a neutral party like a Bartertown buy; or even a captured Bandit. Bandits were opportunists; they didn't go out of their way to try to capture and slaughter War Boys for food. Being a Buzzard meant something different when so many had lost crewmates to Buzzards on the runs.

Morsov's thoughts turned to his earlier off-color joke about eating meat. No wonder he wasn't close to his crewmates, Morsov thought, embarrassed at his faux-pas; no one much liked it that he had been a Buzzard, so why mention it, even in passing? Ashamed and upset at himself, he walked away from the clump of Half-life Nobles and strode out onto the empty practice field, careful not to look east but looking north at the black, smoky blot of Bulletfarm.

Even from here he could hear the sound of the ringing forges, a clinking metal grind that followed a steady rhythm, as regular as the turning of a gear.

The hard-packed dirt beneath his treaded boots reminded him of his many times riding as a single Lancer in the exhibitions during the War Games, and the times he had been overlooked, until he had landed a historic kill on the daily patrol, something that got him briefly pushed up toward the top of the Lancer line, just behind the paired Lancers. It had been such a memorable kill that it took him from ignored to being courted all around. But Morsov knew that it was no more than luck that placed him in the right place, and the skill it took was minimal. It had been just another day on the Fury Road, but magnified by the fact that it had been seen by someone important, a Half-life Noble driving a support truck on a rare inspection day.

Accidents, Morsov thought, sighing. Lucky breaks. Even this promotion was an accident; someone else more skilled must deserve this spot in the line more...

“Bout ready to go, Morsov.”

“Hmm?” Morsov turned to see the Ace walk up beside him, the Ace's black-stained hand shading his pale eyes from the bright glare of the sun. 

“Said it's about time. Imperator's going out for a few loops around the circuit, and we'll head out at her signal. You wanna ride with me or Coil? Your choice; Dart says he don't mind who he goes with.”

“You. I mean, if that's okay, Ace.” Morsov shook his head. “That is...if it's all right with you. They seem like they make a good team.”

“Coil don't mind who he drives for, and you know you're always welcome to ride with me.” The Ace smiled, patting his shoulder. “You okay? Seem a little glum.” The Ace pivoted minutely so that he wasn't quite facing the sun, the skin around his gray eyes creased as he squinted in the bright light.

“Just a little tired from chasing the pups around all morning,” Morsov lied. 

“Then you'll wanna get some rest while she's makin her installation run. Why don't you go lie down on the Driver's seat for a bit? I'll come get you when time comes.” 

“Sure.” Morsov paused, noticing the Ace bring his hand up again to shade his eyes as he began walking away. “Wait, Ace?”

“Yeah?”

“You lost your goggles when you fell, didn't you?”

The Ace nodded, touching his scarred cheekbone absently, feeling the raised brand. “Knocked clear off my head. Don't think the boys found 'em in the cleanup, musta been crushed in the melee. Why?”

“Here.” Morsov fumbled with the goggles around his neck, pulling them off though they briefly caught on his ears. “Take these.” His goggles, with the black-smoked lenses, stolen when he ran, so many thousands of days ago that sometimes he could barely remember the child he had been.

“Morsov.” The Ace looked surprised. “You know I can't take this from you...they're yours and yours by right. You had 'em before we had you. The only thing of value you had comin away from the east.”

“No, no, it's okay Ace. I never use them.” Morsov managed a weak smile, meeting the Ace's eyes. “You need it more 'n me. My eyes adjust fine to the sun. Really never wear them.” And Morsov didn't want to say that he was always been tempted to put them on, but didn't want to be branded a Buzzard, afraid of a little sunlight, nocturnal and ground-dwelling, no more than vermin in the eyes of the War Boys.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Morsov pressed the goggles into the Ace's hands, closing the Ace's warm calloused fingers over the goggles. “I'm sure. I want you to have 'em.”

“Thank you.” The Ace embraced him firmly, kissing him on his cheeks. “You're a good War Boy, Morsov. Always been a good lad. Glad you're my crewmate now, for all these days and more. I won't ever forget that you've done this for me.”

Morsov felt himself leaning into the embrace briefly before the Ace let him go, and the little moment of comfort seemed to make all the petty hurts of the day recede.

“It's okay, no big deal. As long as someone can get use out of them, I'm happy...” Flustered, Morsov followed him back to meet with the others.

*****

“What's the difference between driving this and the War Rig?” Furiosa looked at the tall cab of the looming half-rig, her heavy mechanical hand dragging her left side, the ochre dust of the practice grounds twirling delicately around her ankles.

“Honestly, Furiosa? Ah, that is, Imperator.” 

“Furiosa is fine.”

“Certainly, but I figured I'd start practicing for when we're out in public and appearances have to be maintained.” Tran's expression grew wry. “Anyhow, the half-rig's a nasty, raging feral compared to the War Rig. The War Rig is a civilized lady in comparison. Been saddled with this miserable beast for years...ages and ages, that is, and I have never particularly enjoyed a moment of it, except on those rare days that the War Rig breaks down and I get to patch her up and drive her home. So if you can drive the half-rig, you can drive the War Rig, easy.”

“Good...to know.”

“It's a function of resources, really. The War Rig is maintained within an inch of her life, whereas this beast is a communal monster that doesn't get love and attention from a specific crew. It's only taken out for Bartertown runs as the older, plain spinster sister of the War Rig. Reliable enough to be backup, but not reliable enough to be the War Rig.” Tran patted the door fondly, pursing his lips. “Isn't that right? Yes, no one loves you, you great hulking beast. You were an orphan of the Fury Road, a captive of the spear, and not a particularly well-favored one. There are many prettier dames than you, yes there are...”

Furiosa cleared her throat.

“Oh sorry. Of course; time to work. Never a moment's rest. All right, shall I properly show you around this monstrosity cobbled together from a Frankenstein?” Tran handed her the wheel, and there was something comforting about the familiar weight, even though it was a strange wheel to her, a nondescript wheel not much more than a blank, the barely-adorned kind used on community vehicles.

“Yes, please.”

Furiosa managed to drag herself up into the cab without any assistance; her mechanical arm giving her the leverage she needed to get into the Driver's seat, even as it weighed her down.

She set the wheel carefully, stroking the leather-bound grip briefly, feeling the familiar excitement of getting into the Driver's seat, tempered with a fear she dared not show, that without two functioning hands, she could not drive.

“So how much do you remember?” Tran climbed in on the passenger side, shutting the door behind him. “Seem to recall that you've driven this at least once before, during that one War Games when Gastown and Bulletfarm didn't make it, so we had that big vehicle swap to pass the time...”

“Fussy. This one's a fussy shifter.” Furiosa said, her head tilted thoughtfully as she adjusted the power on her actuators with the key, raising the torque, uncertain of how much force she would need to steer. “And about as responsive and agile as a dead-asleep War Boy buried to his neck in sand.”

“So you do remember!” Tran laughed. “Anyhow, usual kill switch sequence. All right, let's get going then. Watch the shift to second; it's quite troublesome. Of course you wouldn't have this problem with the War Rig; the War Rig is as agile as a tumbling War Pup compared to the half-rig. You can be rough with the half-rig getting it to obey, but the War Rig, you have to romance. Though I can't tell you what the War Rig is like when hauling goods; never done that before.”

“Ace told me, at least what little he knows. He's taken the wheel before as crew lead.”

“Oh, the rarefied heights that one has achieved. Now that's a War Boy to aspire to, if one were lucky enough to live so healthy for so long...” Tran continued to chatter amiably as Furiosa drove, taking long easy turns around the practice field, trying to get a feeling for the half-rig. 

The Revheads had done their measurements well; the extra length of the arm allowed her to grip the wheel even though her elbow stayed on the armrest, something her own arm would have been too short to do. Her mechanical hand had a tendency to drag the wheel to the left, but Furiosa found that once she counterbalanced the arm so that the full weight of it was on the arm rest, the drag disappeared, leaving her with easy control of the wheel. The strength of the arm actually gave her an advantage; the wheel that often took all her strength to turn needed less force to get going, even though she knew by feel that it should be hard turning.

As Furiosa settled into driving, letting instinct and muscle memory take over, a weird giddiness came over her. She was really doing it. She was using her new hand to drive and it wasn't nearly as hard as she thought it would be. And managing it with the half-rig meant that she could easily manage the War Rig. 

It could be done. She wouldn't be trashed.

The weight off her shoulders was palpable, and she found herself smiling.

“Looks like you're ready, Furiosa. Shall I signal the others? Give us all a little practice playing escort versus jackals?”

“Please.” 

“Actually, I have an idea. Let's surprise them, see if they're ready to ride or if they're slacking at the wheel.” Tran grinned. “Why don't you sound the horn?”

“Good idea.” But it was to her left, and could her new hand manage it? She turned the half-rig, ending up on a long straight, and pulled the chain, giving it a tug the way she remembered sounding the horn on the War Rig.

It sounded once, brassy and strident, and then on the second tug, the thin chain snapped with a sharp metallic clink that made both of them flinch.

As the practice cars roared up, dust billowing as they cut through the packed dirt of the track, Furiosa accidentally made eye contact with Tran.

“That is a mean left hook. Remind me never to get on your bad side, Furiosa,” he said drolly, and it set her off. She laughed, even as she could see the two cars jostle for position beside her, one playing escort and the other playing jackal, miming an attack on the convoy.

 

On the last run before refueling, the silver and the rust-red practice cars pounded through thick clouds of dust, jockeying for position beside the ungainly hulk of the half-rig. Furiosa checked the mirrors; these were classic maneuvers to keep road warriors at bay, and she smiled a little to herself, recognizing Coil's fluid driving style, the easy economy of motion by which he kept the silver tight by her side, keeping the hard-steering rust-red away.

She glanced at Tran; he nodded, looking out the passenger window, signaling that it was clear and so she swung the half-rig around for another loop around the practice field. As she turned, the rust red braked, pulling hard beside them at the slowest point of the turn. Before she could wonder what had happened, there was a heavy thump as someone boarded the half-rig behind the cab.

“What...?” Furiosa quickly turned to check her mirrors.

Another thump, but this time it was a splatter of white against the mirror, blotting out her view.

In a flash, Morsov was beside her, his white-stained right hand clinging to the frame of the open window.

“Bang,” he said, gesturing briefly with his left hand, his thumb and index finger miming a gun, brown eyes bright with excitement. “You're dead.”

 

Furiosa drew the the half-rig to a halt, and the practice cars pulled up beside it. The half-rig was itself a support truck, no need to reset all the vehicles around a staged support truck. It made this training run easy and efficient, without the extra expense of bringing additional vehicles for refueling.

Morsov opened the door for her and offered his left, unstained hand. It made Furiosa pause briefly, but she took it, letting him help her out of the rig, remembering that this was what crewmates did for each other. It was hard to remember that a stranger such as Morsov was now like Coil, like the Ace; perhaps not a friend yet, but a close ally who by rights had to have her back. 

His fingers were cold and there was a jitteriness to his grip that she attributed to adrenaline, so she gave his hand a friendly squeeze. He smiled at her, and there was an odd wistfulness in his melancholy brown eyes.

“Good job, Morsov.” Furiosa nodded. “Interesting maneuver. I didn't think we'd end training this way.”

“Sorry. Didn't mean to surprise you. Just thought...um. Watched the braking point. And the rig slows down to almost nothing on the apex. So it was safe as nests to jump over.”

“Have you done this before? Are you good at it?”

“Well, just the one time on the War Rig, really...”

“Furiosa!” Coil came up, pulling off his driving goggles. “Looks like I failed at playing escort. Jackals win this round. Next time we do this, I'm calling dibs on Morsov.”

“You'll probably have to fight the Ace for him. In fact, you may have to fight me for him,” Tran said dryly as he came around the cab from the other side. Dart said nothing, merely shaking his head with a long-suffering sigh as he linked his arm with Tran's. Tran leaned down and kissed the shorter, stocky Lancer's forehead with an exaggerated smack and murmured something to him that made the War Boy laugh.

“Absolute stonker of a move, Morsov. How'd you pull that off?” Coil asked.

“Just timing. It was really Ace's driving. He went for the gap, the placement was good, so I just jumped.” Morsov quickly let go of Furiosa's hand, noticing Coil's eyes on them. “Um. Should I help go refuel?”

“Nah, it can hold. Let the cars catch their breaths first before we feed and water 'em,” Coil grinned, putting his arm around Morsov's shoulders, giving him a little shake. “That was a historic maneuver, mate.”

“One to avoid if it don't need doin,” the Ace said, frowning as he joined the others, eyes unreadable behind the dark goggles. “Could have gone under the wheels, Morsov, and for what? Training? Ain't no reason to get Witnessed doin somethin ordinary. We don't waste nothing, not food, not water, not War Boys.” 

“Sorry,” Morsov ducked his head and it seemed that he shrank into himself, shoulders hunched.

“Gotta calculate all your risks. Don't do nothin that don't need doin. Few things are worth it, and trainin ain't anywhere near one of 'em. Rule of three! No high-flyin moves just for the sake of doing it. You go down doin something foolish and we lose all the thousands more days you could be working and for what? You ain't even half-life yet! We ain't fightin Bandits or Buzzards or-”

“Ace,” Furiosa said, and though her tone was gentle, the Ace shut his mouth and bowed his head, abashed, realizing that he had overstepped. 

Furiosa paused to think, considering her words carefully. “Morsov's maneuver is worth adding to the general training, but it should be practiced static. Maybe a slow first gear after a season or two of stationary training. Ace, do you think we could build a War Rig arm in the Lancer's workshop? Raise the mock walk by maybe five, six hands?”

“Maybe some practical use for that pulley arm in a fight,” the Ace agreed, a little hesitantly. “Suppose I seen you do some clever things with that, Furiosa.”

Furiosa nodded. “So have some Revheads build an arm with the same action and load bearing potential. We'll practice some static runs. It's good backup in case we lose personnel aboard or somehow we need some backup up top.” 

“You could put the mock walk on a short track too if you want to try it moving,” Tran suggested. “Like the practice car but a longer track. It'd fit in the Lancer's workshop; that room's longer than it is wide.”

“Why not put wheels on it? Have some Revheads push it? You could vary the direction that way,” Dart suggested.

“Momentum, Dart. The track keeps it from losing control and crashing out.” 

She looked around at her crew as they discussed training logistics. To her it felt like they were an amalgamation, little pairs of crews and individuals that were not quite a cohesive unit and she wondered how Imperator Acosta had managed. The previous Imperator had five crewmates from all different cohorts and alliances, and she wondered how he had managed to glue them together into a unified group when it seemed that she could barely do the same with crewmates that were mostly already close friends.

“Half break,” Furiosa said decisively. “Then we'll refuel and head back.”

 

Furiosa watched Morsov wipe down the white-splattered mirrors, polishing them back up to a shine with his shop cloth and spit. Once he was done, she was surprised that he immediately headed toward her.

“I came to apologize,” Morsov began, but Furisoa shook her head. The others were resting in the practice cars, taking short naps while Dart kept watch from the top of the half-rig, a long rifle resting against his shoulder. 

“It's all right. There's no need to apologize. No harm was done,” Furiosa reached out to pat Morsov's muscular shoulder, giving his bicep a squeeze, imitating the Ace's easy camaraderie, the kind of firm friendliness that the Ace had for most everyone. “You did fine. It was a beautiful move by all accounts.”

“Still. I feel terrible,” Morsov muttered to himself, but she heard him anyway.

“Morsov, he was only angry because he cares about you,” Furiosa said, speaking softly so that they would not be overheard, and Morsov caught her eye with a skeptical look. “Why are you so surprised? You're his favorite, always have been.”

“Thought it was you.” 

“Maybe?” Furiosa looked away for a moment, embarrassed. “No, but even if that's the case, it doesn't mean he doesn't care about you. You're the child he took out of the waste.”

Morsov tensed under her touch, and she patted him again, trying to make him feel at ease.

“I suppose our cohort...in some ways, we're all his children. But I think. I think maybe he cares about you the most. You might not know it, but he's done a lot for you. And he always will.” Furiosa said, remembering her talk with the Ace. “He does it not expecting anything in return, but because he loves you. And you're only worried that he's angry because you love him too.”

Morsov shook his head, muttering to himself and this time she couldn't understand what he was saying; this was that famous Buzzard lingua that she had heard of, that Morsov famously never used unless he was mad. But she thought that he didn't seem mad, more stunned than anything.

“I...I don't know what your father was like, Morsov,” and here Furiosa felt as though she was rambling, but she said it anyway; it seemed that he needed to hear it. “But whatever those days were like, the Ace has been father to you since. He'll never admit he's worried about you, not in so many words, but I know him well.”

“Oh.” Unconsciously, Morsov's hands closed around hers, and it was odd not to feel that sudden panic at a strange War Boy's touch. Those days were long gone, Furiosa realized, and she was now one of them, moving with easy confidence through their strange world of clipped, impersonal speech and casual intimacy.

“You don't have to apologize, not to me and not to him. But maybe you should go talk to Ace. Tell him...”

“Hmm?”

“Tell him you're glad he's looking out for you.” Furiosa gave his hand a squeeze, and Morsov met her eyes, grateful. But there was something more to his expression that she suddenly realized, something that had been left unspoken, but she could see in with sharp clarity and it explained his concern during the arm fitting, his politely distant manner.

It was normal. All Lancers respected their Drivers, a regard that often turned into puppy love. She should have expected it, not from the others of course, but from Morsov, the youngest and the only previously unattached member of their crew. It was normal to have something of an attraction to the Driver. After all, she had felt a stirring of it herself when she was first paired with Coil, that admiration of the older, more respectable and more experienced crewmate. 

It just had never occurred to Furiosa that someone might feel that way about her. 

She knew from experience that time would ease those feelings into something manageable, and the only thing she felt sorry for was that Morsov had to learn that lesson on his own, a long and painful education for some. She tried to remember who his past Drivers were, but couldn't, and decided that she would have to ask the Ace.

“Beautiful,” Morsov said suddenly, and Furiosa found hers eyes sliding guiltily toward Dart on the top of the half-rig. He was watching the distant waste, eyes scanning the horizon, and she wondered if he could hear them from where he sat, and if he did, what he would say to Coil, what he would say to Tran.

“Huh?”

“Oh! Sorry, I meant your hand.” Morsov pointed, not at her actual hand, but at the unwieldy bulk of her prosthetic. 

“What about it?”

“It's beautiful, how the light touches it. And the shadow it casts is like seeing the skeleton, all bones and no flesh. Pure machine; shiny and chrome.” 

And when she looked, she realized he was right. The low afternoon sun pulled the shadows long across the practice plain, and the way the dust-tinged light shone through the metalwork, the shadow that it cast over the hard-packed ground looked strikingly skeletal.

Morsov smiled a little, awkwardly, and briefly she caught a glimpse of his natural warmth, the kindness and sincerity that made him charming, and she suddenly understood why the Ace would care so much for this Buzzard's castoff.

“T-thanks,” Furiosa managed, both touched by the moment and a little embarrassed at the praise but then his face grew guarded again, carefully schooling his expression, and she wondered what she said wrong.

 

Morsov found the Ace reclining in the sun-warmed Lancer's basket, arms crossed and eyes closed, goggles dangling unused around his neck. From the faint rattle of snoring breath, the lingering legacy of a nose broken so long ago that the story behind it was lost to time, Morsov could tell that the Ace was asleep and so he paused, wondering if he should wake the Ace. But that didn't seem right; the Ace deserved his rest and whatever Morsov had to say could wait. After all, it was only important to him and no one else in particular.

But as Morsov turned to go, the heel of his boot slid with a faint hiss on the hard soil, and the Ace cracked open an eyelid.

“Morsov.”

Morsov looked at his feet. Remembering what the Imperator had told him to say, the words dried up on his tongue.

The Ace beckoned him over, gesturing for him to sit beside him. Morsov hesitated, but hoisted himself up onto the basket beside the Ace.

The Ace drew him close, his arm around Morsov's shoulders, and Morsov couldn't help but think of what Furiosa had said. Could it have been true? All this time, he had thought that the much more talented members of his cohort like Nux and Slit were the War Boys that the Ace had favored, but...

He leaned against the Ace, smelling iron and machine oil, the musty scent of the leather-bound interior of the practice car, and whatever it was that made the Ace himself. The Ace was warm, and being this close to him reminded Morsov of the past, of being a boy, not even a War Pup yet, a feral Buzzard haunting the narrow black tunnels of the old warren alone.

He couldn't remember the last time he had been so close to the Ace.

The Ace's fingers closed around the ball of his shoulder, and Morsov rested his head against the Ace, closing his eyes.

*****

Pain and Slit struggled to remember what had happened. The right side of his head throbbed, pounding with each heartbeat, and he could feel sticky blood trickling down the side of his forehead, washing into his right eye, leaving him half-blind. His body ached deeply, skin abraded and bones sore; had he fallen from his lancer's perch somehow? He could not remember.

The last thing he remembered, they were riding the patrol southwest, and whatever happened after that was like a coarsely chopped slice of time from his memory. Riding patrol, the scent of dust and the wild eastern wind in his nose and then here, wherever this place was. Nothing he could piece together, just ragged memories of pain, fragments of jumbled recall.

Fumbling, Slit reached to wipe off the blood, but it took him a moment to realize that the reason he couldn't was because he was bound, arms lashed tight behind his back. In a panic, he looked around and in the dim light he could see the whitened figures of the other captive War Boys, bound and gagged, hear their labored breathing, their grunts and moans of frustration. Had it been Buzzards that had captured them? But no, he'd already be dead. They never kept captives long; they were usually butchered immediately, quickly processed into food while hot and fresh. 

Footsteps, slow and deliberate, first one set and then more and more, thudding through the pounded dirt floor, and Slit's blinked against the blood blinding his right eye and a shadowed figure loomed above him, grabbing him by the throat and dragging him up so that he

 

Nux slept, peaceful and unaware, sprawled out on the clean sand of the nest.

Just a dream, Slit thought as his breaths came harsh, his heart pounding painfully fast in his chest. These days they came with less frequency, but when he woke, Slit could still smell the stink of that miserable hovel clinging to his nostrils, the reek of blood and ruptured organs, the rank stench of shit and piss, rust and decay. 

Briefly, he pressed his nose against the crook of Nux's arm and took a deep breath. The familiar scent of Nux's body, with all its warmth and implied comfort helped to chase some of those bad memories away and he felt his pulse suddenly dip down to a slow and steady beat, with an almost jarring sensation as his rpm spun back down to normal.

Slit's hand wandered to the healing brands on his back. He had been the remaining Witness for the daily patrol crew, all eight War Boys with him as the ninth and there was something to that; in some ways standing Last had made him more respectable. After all, was not the Immortan to stand Last Witness for all, sacrificing himself to redeem the others? Slit had touched a lot of mourning scars in the days since he left the Organic's shop.

He pressed his palm tight to the hot wounds, and the sudden jolt of pain made everything else vanish briefly in a wash of hurt. The hot pain brought up memories from deep in the past, and Slit's thoughts lingered on the small hands that had tucked the blanket around him as the brand seared him with its unforgettable heat, hurting him, the only time he'd be hurt, the Ace had said back then. But the memory of that first night faded under the press of his own palm; this new pain wasn't quite as good as that old, fondly remembered one and definitely not anywhere near as good as the knife...but then, even those weren't nearly as good as the slow-healing wound on his face, the one that still tore open at times, by accident or not.

Grateful that Nux slept like the dead and was unlikely to wake, Slit untangled himself carelessly. Alone, he stared up through the dark airshaft, knowing that they were there but unable to see the stars above.


	5. Chapter 5

A habitually early riser, Nux found himself awake as the light creeping in from the air shafts was still pale gray, painting sleeping War Boys an even whiter white, tainting the world monochrome. In days past as a War Pup, this was the time he would wander the warren and the shops, dreaming with his two hands as he fixed what he was otherwise not allowed to touch. 

These days Nux used this valuable free time to think, to imagine possibilities beyond his current limitations. Sometimes he used the time to plan out the activities for the day, considering what he had to get accomplished that day, the particular order the work had to be done in in order to have a seamless flow between upgrades and maintenance, or visualizing how he would train a young Revhead on some fine bit of mechanical work that he no longer had to do himself, what he would teach the shop's assigned War Pup that day. But more often than not he imagined the design of the car of his future ambitions, a pursuit vehicle that would not only rival the current frontrunners, but put them to shame.

All around the nest his fellow War Boys dreamed too, some quietly, some restlessly.

Slit slept beside him, unmoving and silent as always, curled up on himself and utterly still. Nux smiled indulgently to himself, his eyes wandering over his Lancer's tightly muscled body. He imagined what Slit must look like perched proudly in the lancer's basket, with that regal bearing that Slit had when he knew he had an audience. In practice, Nux only caught bare glimpses of Slit when he checked Slit's placement before maneuvers, but he imagined it was a sight to behold, with his handsome chrome staples and his hard-muscled body. 

Tempted, Nux nearly reached out to touch Slit, to trace the finely graven muscle of Slit's chest, to feel the flat, hard muscle beneath his palm and the strong beat of the pistons of Slit's heart beneath the chassis of bone and muscle. But Slit slept lightly; that would surely wake him.

So Nux closed his eyes and dreamed about the car.

*****

Pain. It was beautiful, blooming up from the skin of Slit's back, and the burning heat of it was as welcoming as the heat of that first, most important brand, inviting him into this life raised high. Giving him a better life than any he had ever known.

The cold, rough sandstone bench beneath his belly was a sharp contrast to the comforting sear of skin and Slit knew that he would miss this heat once this brand was done and healed. But right now he enjoyed every press of the hot iron, every sizzling stroke and if only Morsov would press harder, if only he were less careful...

Slit closed his eyes, feeling every turn of the gear as it was sealed against his skin. Idly, he wondered if this is how Drivers felt during the initiation, dreaming the life of the engine as the guzzoline and nitrous worked through them. 

Nux and Morsov chatted over him, some business about training and comparisons to the Ace, but Slit didn't care, sighing with pleasure as he relished the pain.

Too soon it was done and Morsov had set aside the branding iron, leaving Slit to bask in the lingering heat, his head pillowed in his arms.

“You must know when we're heading out, Morsov.”

“Nope, Imperator hasn't said much. Maybe next full moon? Definitely by the one after that.”

“Really? That soon?”

“Don't know for sure. I'm just guessing. Nux, don't say anything, all right? Not sure if we're full ready.”

“I'm ready.”

“No you're not,” Slit muttered, and Nux's hand ran lightly over his shoulder, petting Slit as if to quell his protests. 

“All right, maybe not fully ready, but I can be ready by half-moon, much less three-quarter,” Nux said. “Anyway, why wouldn't you be ready? Can you even say?”

“We still don't have supplemental Lancers. But I think it's because there aren't any that are qualified enough yet. Most of the single Lancers are too new, haven't even run daily patrol long enough to make a dent and the experienced daily boys got promoted to additional escort. Guess we'll get them eventually but not soon.” Morsov brought out his tin of ointment. “Slit, you want me or Nux to put on the ointment?”

“Is that even a question?” Nux grinned. “He'll always want me.”

The two War Boys chuckled, and in a flash, Slit was up on his feet, good mood gone. 

“I can do it myself,” Slit snatched the tin from Morsov's lax hand. He focused on the press of his fingers against the new brand; the sharp pain from the pressure of his own touch was much better than anything Nux or Morsov could do. Morsov had far too light of a touch, and in some ways, Nux wasn't much better.

He glanced over at Nux and Morsov; they were exchanging a look of mutual understanding, a conspiratorial look that hinted at the unspoken secrets between them and Slit could not help but remember the gossip he had heard, had been told. About the nights that the two of them were together in Nux's car and Slit knew Nux had lied to him when he said it had only been once...

“So I suppose we're done here,” Nux managed a nervous little smile, noticing Slit's eyes on him. “Morsov, maybe next time we-”

“Oi!” A War Boy poked his head into the practice shop, a newly promoted Moto-Lancer that Slit only knew by sight. His nose wrinkled as he sniffed the room. “Smells like cooking in here. There a Buzzard around, roasting up a fresh War Boy?” The War Boy laughed loudly at his own joke.

Morsov's mouth closed in a tight line as he quickly packed up his cooling branding iron, eyes carefully focused only on his tools and nowhere else.

“Just some bodywork. We're finishing up. You interested in some mods?” Nux gestured to Slit. “Because the work Morsov does is really quite fine.”

“Nah, wouldn't want to tempt anyone that's hungry for some--”

“War Boy, don't you have work to do?” Slit strode up to the Moto-Lancer, accentuating his sway-hipped Lancer's walk, the result of long hours of training for cars and not cycles. “Shops are opening any time now. Or maybe you don't have enough ride to work on?”

“Lancer, I don't care how high you ride, but I drive my own,” The Moto-Lancer snapped, snarling at Slit.

“All right, all right, no need to fuss,” Nux stood up, casually placing himself between the two War Boys, asserting his presence. “Let's go, Slit. Time to open shop.” He turned to the Moto-Lancer who had insulted Morsov, fully aware that Moto-Lancers maintained their own vehicles with no real access to a pit crew the way a Driver had. “We'd stay and chat but the Lancer and I have Revheads to manage. Wouldn't want to be late, you know. Sets a bad example for our boys. Certainly you would understand.”

With a huff, the Moto-Lancer stomped off.

Nux linked arms with Slit, feeling Slit's arm slowly relax, tightly wound tension melting away as they drew close together.

*****

The Imperators came for her early, before Furiosa had even put her boots on. As they entered the nest unannounced, she found herself flanked by Coil who moved instinctively to her side .

With no time to prepare, Furiosa decided that there was no other option but the direct approach and so she strode forth boldly to meet the Imperators, Coil at her side, the sand-strewn rock cold and hard beneath her bare feet. Furiosa squared her shoulders, straightening up, and crossed her arms to hide the stump of her left arm.

Two tall brothers, a neatly matched set, near-identical in feature, and had they been almost any other Imperators, she might not have recognized them. As it was she had only ever seen them from a distance riding atop the Gigahorse, signaling the cars, and giving the order.

Furiosa could see it in their heavyset muscles and the numerous tiny scars on their coarse, sun-browned skin; like the Ace, these were older War Boys who had cut the stone of the Citadel in their youth. They must have been in the Citadel since before the foundation of the first, she realized, or perhaps even from the beginning. War Boys who had been War Boys for longer than Furiosa had been alive.

“War Rig Imperator.”

“Tertius Imperator. Quartus Imperator.” Not knowing which one was which, Furiosa addressed both, raising her hands in the V8 and bowing her head as was appropriate. When she looked up, she noticed the two exchanging knowing looks with their dark blue eyes; was that a glint of sardonic amusement?

“Brother Imperators need not offer obeisance, War Rig Imperator. Quartus, have you the message?”

Furiosa glanced at the two, trying to memorize the minute differences between them. The Quartus was fractionally taller, with a notably thick white jagged line of scar tissue across his left forearm.

“Yes, brother Tertius. War Rig, greetings and regards from the Immortan Joe...”

At the mere mention of his name, Furiosa's breath caught in a strange way in her chest and a moment later, she felt the pace of her heart speed up painfully. The pounding of her own pulse made her strangely light-headed and she nodded as the Imperator spoke, trying to look grave and unperturbed as that all too-familiar feeling, that sick, cold dread in her belly crept over her skin and with it the memory of his broad, grasping hands as he

Furiosa took one deliberate breath after another, forcing herself to focus on the words of the Imperators, and a moment later she felt her heart ease down to its usual steady beat as though a flipped switch, leaving her nearly boneless with relief, though she kept her expression steady.

“...and he expects with the coming waxing moon that the long-overdue Bartertown trade will commence,” the Quartus continued.

“Preparation...preparation is on schedule,” Furiosa paused to consider her words, meeting their eyes levelly, one after another. “We'll be chasing the next full moon.”

“The Immortan Joe trusts that all will go well,” the Tertius said. “He wishes to remind you that you will earn the full emblem once you prove your worth.” The Tertius gestured to her Imperator's emblem, the unadorned leather badge without the delicately worked metal sigil of the terrible aspect of the Immorta enthroned in flames.

Furiosa's mouth tightened in a line. “Of course.”

“Many Imperators have never earned the full emblem. The mere mention of the full emblem does you great favor by him,” the Quartus added.

“By my honor,” Furiosa said politely, remembering the words that the Ace had taught her long ago, a nice meaningless phrase of submission to the authority of Imperators and War Lords alike. 

“Well, Furiosa. Heard bout your deeds even from high up,” the Tertius said suddenly, and Furiosa was surprised to hear him drop all formality. 

“They said the new War Rig tried to save Acosta,” the Quartus nudged the Tertius. “Poor Alonso; never did have a chance, did he?” 

It took Furiosa a moment to realize that that the former War Rig Imperator must have had another name, a secret name that only other Imperators knew. “N-no. He was already almost bled out by the time I got to him.”

“Last Witness,” the Tertius said gravely, and in the ensuing ritual silence, all of them bowed their heads briefly, making the V8. “You know what you must do.”

“Noticed your new mourning, but didn't want to presume,” Furiosa said, carefully scrubbing out any references to herself as she spoke.

“Please, presume. And tell us how he died.” The Tertius went first, bowing his head slightly so that she did not have to reach far. She spoke as she touched their scars unflinchingly, left and right, one after another. 

“Fighting. He died fighting. Protecting us by holding the rig steady. Fighting to save the rig from capture. He died for all us.”

With her last words, Furiosa finished with the scar over the Quartus' right cheekbone, and dropped her hand to her side, rubbing the tips of her fingers absently against the fabric of her pants.

The Tertius sighed, shaking his head mournfully. “You did your best by him, can't do much more. And you kept our little brother Ace from going under the wheels. Saw it from up high.”

“Little brother?” Furiosa glanced around; the Ace was nowhere to be seen, having left the nest early.

“Extended family of the long run,” the Quartus explained. “Known the little digger almost all our lives. If he weren't pig-stubborn, he'd be a brother Imperator. Too late now though, bein half-life.”

“We all used to live and work together, side by side. Every last one of us, even the Daddy and Uncle Danny,” the Tertius' eyes sparkled with amusement, wrinkles crinkling. “Been a long time since those days though.”

“We don't talk about those days, Number Three,” the Quartus mockingly scolded. “Ain't right traumatizin the pups with scary stories of times past.” 

“Innit right. Four, remind me, what are the names of the crewmates again? The new Half-life Nobles?” The Tertius changed the subject suddenly, turning his attention to Coil, who shot Furiosa a nervous look.

“Besides Ace? Tran, Coil, Dart, Morsov,” the Quartus counted them off on his fingers and Furiosa was surprised that they knew so much about what was going on in the War Tower. She knew that her promotion had stripped her of some of the anonymity of being an ordinary War Boy, but it had never occurred to her that she would expose everyone she selected as a Half-life Noble to the possible scrutiny of the Immortan Joe and the high Imperators who served him.

Resolutely, Furiosa kept her attention away from Coil, feigning disinterest.

“Let me guess...” The Tertius eyed Coil with an air of exaggerated scrutiny. “This would be...Coil?” Furiosa noticed a certain look of recognition in the Imperator's dark blue eyes. Somehow they had already known the answer to that, but how she could not say.

Coil raised his hands, forming the V8. “By my deeds,” he said, bowing his head. 

“By my deeds indeed. Been a long time,” the Ace interrupted, leaning against the doorway. “Was wonderin how long it'd take before someone noticed.”

“Budda!” The two Imperators turned their attention to the Ace, and Furiosa was relieved that they had turned their focus to someone else. The two Imperators greeted the Ace warmly, but she was surprised that they did not embrace him, until she realized that there must exist a formal distance between Imperators and War Boys, at least in public. “What a pleasant surprise. Come now, we must speak. It has been too long!” 

“Ace, we trust that you are well and healed from your misadventure. Furthermore, there is some business about your recent promotion to crew lead...”

The Imperators left flanking the Ace, and though Furiosa strained to hear their conversation, they were quickly out of earshot. She wondered what business they could possibly have with the Ace that didn't include her. Perhaps nothing more than congratulations on the promotion?

Coil caught her eye. “Strange lot. I've never seen either of them say so much before.”

Furiosa barely heard him, lost in thought. The fact that the Immortan Joe had sent some high ranking Imperators to run his messages when a War Pup could have done it just as easily suggested that they had been sent to keep an eye on the business. And she knew that pressure from the Immortan's Tower meant that they had to get their work together more quickly, but there was still so much left to do, and some of the things she meant to have done were still undone...

One thing at a time. At least the Imperators were gone. Furiosa let out a sigh of relief.

Pain. As muscles girding her sides spasmed at the bottom of her exhale, Furiosa's breath caught with a little gasp.

“What is it?” Coil asked, and she shook her head, breathing through the clenching pain, .

“Nothing, nothing. I'm fine.” Furiosa breathed carefully, not wanting to admit that she was in pain.

“It's the hand, isn't it? Shouldn't wear it so long. You had it on almost all day yesterday.”

“No choice.”

“Maybe not. But maybe...what if we built you some support? Strengthen your chassis somehow.”

Furiosa laughed, bitter and humorless, but the sound was cut off short by a gripping pain in her side. “Support? I'm already training my muscles, but there's a limit to everything.”

“There must be something that can be done,” Coil said, brow furrowed. “I'll ask around.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know.” Coil slung his arm around her shoulders giving her a squeeze. “Furiosa, you don't have to do this alone.” 

As tempted as she was to lean in against him, to take in the comfort of a brief moment of familiar contact, Furiosa remembered the Imperators and their scrutiny, the way the Imperators had looked at Coil. They had known who he was without prompting, by sight. Eyes were on everywhere now that she had lost her War Boy's anonymity, and the last thing she needed was the Immortan's eyes on her crew. She had to make certain that when time came to blame, it would rest on her shoulders and not theirs.

And then memory came back to her, with a disturbing clarity as it hadn't in ages, the reek of his sweat, the heat of his broad, calloused hands as he pinned her terrified to the creaking metal-framed bed and

Furiosa shrugged Coil off, stepping away. Trembling, Furiosa shook her head. “I have to.”

*****

Mornings were growing chilly, and the dented tin cup hot between his hands had a pleasing warmth. Morsov sipped at the dark brew, faintly sour and bitter, enjoying the pleasant woodiness of the chicory. Everyone starting at a Revhead was allotted a small cup every morning, half that for an Organic, but high up on the line beside the Imperator, they received two cups. Today it had even been sweetened with just the smallest drip of milk, one of the privileges of life at the head of the line.

Quickly finishing the morning meal, he excused himself and made his way over to check on the War Pups who were just sitting down to eat. Today would be a big training day, where the new pups of the cohort would go on the training car for the first time, and he wanted to see how the cohort was settling in, if they had formed their little alliances and friendships yet, or if they were still an uncohesive group of strangers.

Some Revheads and new Lancers hadn't sat down yet; they were milling around the tables, food in hand, gossiping about something or another and Morsov used the cover of their movement to come up to the War Pups' table unnoticed.

A pup sat at the head of the table on a makeshift stool placed to add more seating. Now that there were more War Pups, the children were jammed at their table as tight as rivets. Morsov recognized the pup as one of the original three of the cohort, watching as it picked at its mush, eating only the beans and seeds, carefully eating around the squash and greens. From his own meal, Morsov knew that breakfast had been a particularly bitter bowl; so much so that even the Ace had remarked on it. They must have recently harvested some of the more unpalatable greens up top in the farm.

The assistant trainer, Skew, pointed to the child's bowl of mush. “You. You stop that. Stop picking. Eat it all.”

“But it tastes bad.” The pup fussed and Morsov made a note of which pup it was. Original cohort meant they were likely Citadel-bred. What did Tran call them again? Citadel princes, and there were more of them every turn of the seasons, privileged sons of Imperators who had never known a life outside.

“You want me to get Morsov?” Skew leaned over the War Pup, glowering. “You cross me, I'll only beat you. But you cross Morsov, he'll eat you.”

A sick, cold feeling gripped Morsov's entrails, and Morsov remembered the times in the past when Skew had set his belt to them for one thing or another. It only happened when the Ace was away, off on those long Bartertown runs, but it seemed that in his memory, he had taken the brunt of many of those beatings.

How many times had he been called a Buzzard back then? Back then he had once tried to correct the assistant trainer, telling him what they called themselves, his clan name and patronymic, but the man had casually slapped him for backchat.

Morsov's hands closed into tight fists.

“Does it really have to be said like that?” Heart pounding, Morsov stepped forward out of the crowd of Revheads and Skew startled violently.

“M-Morsov. Just keeping order here,” Skew stammered. “Boys slept good last night, no one messed the nest this morning. So we're all good here, right? You want to take over for the day?”

Morsov glanced over the War Pups. No injuries, no signs of bruising, at least nothing he could see under the white. Everyone looked healthy and alert. But as his eyes ran over the children, he saw some of them flinch from his gaze, as though even his look might hurt them. They didn't trust him. 

But he hadn't had this problem in the first days of training; they hadn't been afraid of him, not more than any other War Boy.

Suddenly, Morsov was reminded of how he thought of the Ace in those days when he was no more than just another War Pup in the cohort. And when he remembered warming himself by the heat of the Ace's broad back every night, he knew he couldn't let this go. 

Morsov took a deep breath. If he was going to be the trainer, he couldn't be undermined, not by a shopbound Revhead.

“I'm taking over,” Morsov said, and there was a surprised murmur among the pups as they realized he was speaking with full authority. “Don't bother coming back; we're assigning a new assistant.”

It took Skew a moment to realize the implications of Morsov's words, and understanding finally sank in, Skew leapt out of his seat, nearly knocking over the closest War Pups around him. 

“You can't do this!” Skew argued, “Been doing this for ages and ages, even before your stinking Buzzard hide-”

“That's enough.” The Ace spoke, walking up slowly, deliberately, with that stern, Half-life Noble's authority that he had wielded for so long that it was second nature. “You heard the order, Revhead. You've been demoted.”

The clinking of spoons in bowls and the hum of conversation died down in the wake of the Ace's raised voice, and it seemed that the whole of the warren was looking at them, even the Organics who were still lined up for their morning meal.

“For what?” Realizing the whole of the warren was watching, Skew raised his voice as well. “I been doing this thousands of days and ain't no one complained ever before.”

“If you want a reason, take it up with the Imperator. What Morsov says, goes,” the Ace said firmly, his stained fingers wrapped around the smooth white ceramic of his cup. It showed his status as crew lead; only the Imperator had a nicer drinking vessel.

Spitting mad, Skew glared at Morsov venomously. “Just because your crew got your back don't mean you're wrong. You're overstepping, Buzzard. Maybe you're at the head of the line now, but-”

“Actually,” Dart raised his voice from across the room. “You know how the training assistant gets allotted extra bars to give to the pups? Been counting the outlay versus what they're getting and it's short every time. Sorry, Imperator Furiosa. Forgot to mention it earlier...”

“Glory me, Dart!” Tran exclaimed. “When exactly were you going to-” 

Ignoring the outburst, the Ace turned to Skew. “That's an interesting fact. Maybe you want to explain?” The Ace's cold eyes seemed to pin Skew in place. “Or how about you resign right now without a fuss and we don't ask too many questions about those thousands of days worth of extra.”

Skew trembled with anger, his face darkening beneath the white and when he heard some nearby Revheads laughing, he tensed up as though shocked by an exposed wire.

Shaking, almost so much that he couldn't keep his hands controlled, Skew raised his hands and bowed his head, forming the V8 tensely with his fingers. 

“By my deeds and the Immortan Joe,” the Revhead spoke, showing the outward motions of submission even as his eyes flashed with anger. “I resign.” Without another word, Skew dropped his arms, turned on his heel, and left, stomping off into the warren.

Morsov sat down in the assistant trainer's vacated seat, the metal bench seeping cold through his trousers. Around him the pups quieted, the closest ones to him shifting subtly away.

He turned to the fussy War Pup and met the pup's dark brown eyes. 

Boldly, the pup returned his gaze fiercely, and Morsov knew that whoever had picked this child to train for the cohort had known their business.

“Eat up,” Morsov said, gesturing at the pup's bowl of half-eaten mush. “You won't live long if you're afraid of eating bitter, or if you're afraid of pain. No one in this world is alive without getting used to both.”

 

After the morning meal, Dart offered to take the pups off Morsov's hands, and so the crowd of children went off with Dart to get cleaned up, to have growing hair shorn off, to wash and touch up smudged white.

Though the Ace had backed him in his decision, Morsov felt remorseful, embarrassed to have been the cause of such a scene in the mess hall. Never had he wanted to be the cause of someone losing their place on the line and here, he had by his own actions demoted a fairly important, reliable Revhead, and for what? Personal feeling? Being called a Buzzard? That was something that bothered no one but him, and he couldn't help but feel personally responsible for making bad decisions while his blood was up. 

Skew was right. By rights, the Ace had to back him, even if he was wrong. Guilt gripped Morsov's belly; he couldn't be sure that he was right. And now there was no assistant at all, and that would cause problems for everyone, notably his own crewmates. It was already causing problems for Dart; it would be a matter of time before it caused problems for the Imperator too. The one thing he meant not to do, the most simple part of his job that he had promised himself he would not do, was to cause problems for anyone else and here he had mucked it all up already. After all, he had only been promoted by chance, not by ability or skill. Surely someone else deserved it more. Perhaps he would lose his place and go back to being an unpaired Lancer...

He trudged down the hallway alone, heading to the training shop. Morsov paused in the entry, looking at the stone of the doorway, at the level where the pups all ran their grimy hands coming in and out of the shop, stained permanently black from the touch of dozens of small hands over the years. He touched the black smudge of a small fingerprint, wondering if some of that filth was from him.

“Hey.” Stonker waved to him, a little motion of his long fingers.

So deeply lost in his thoughts that he had not noticed someone else was already in the shop, Morsov flinched, startled.

“Oh, it's you.” Morsov hesitated, lingering in the doorway. “Um. Did you need something?” He tried to think of why the tall Driver would have come to see him, but then he put his hand to his valuables pocket, feeling the edges of the music box that he had almost forgotten, having not touched it since Stonker had given it to him.

“Need? Oh, well, I. Um, no. Not really. Just. I was near the practice shop and I thought, hey, why not go see how things are going? I mean, obviously things are going, aren't things always going? I just...” 

“Hmm?”

“Just thought I'd come and see you, that's all. Before work starts for the day.” Stonker smiled and Morsov liked how the smile lit up the tall War Boy's face and gave clarity to those golden brown eyes. “How goes it? How have you been?”

It took a moment before Morsov realized Stonker had asked him a question.

“Fine. N-not on the rota today?”

“Nah. It's just shop and nothing else. No practice today. By the way, I don't know if you've heard, but the new Half-life Nobles...they work us hard during training,” Stonker smiled wryly. “Almost makes a Driver want to self-demote to Lancer.”

“Hadn't heard that. But you shouldn't demote; we don't have enough qualified Drivers as is.”

“Oh, I won't. But I'd be lying if I said that I never gave it some serious thought. After that third run the other day... Immorta! Tran and Coil, they sure know how to work a Driver hard! Course if giving up my drive meant I'd be taken up on the War Rig as an extra, I'd do it in a heartbeat. But I grew a few fingers after I made Driver, so I'm too tall.”

And as Stonker straightened up to his full height to illustrate the point, Morsov realized that the War Boy was certainly tall, even taller than Nux, though it was hard to say exactly how much as Nux habitually slouched. 

“Oh. Right. After ten and three-quarters, they don't want you riding high.”

“Eleven and a quarter,” Stonker said, a little embarrassed. “They promoted me fast once they saw how I was growing.”

“You didn't inherit.” Morsov said, already knowing the answer to the question, but going for the gap when he saw it. It didn't take much skill to direct a conversation where he needed it to go; he had seen the Ace do this sort of talk-steering before with all sorts of War Boys, even Imperators.

“No,” Stonker said sheepishly, driving straight into the speed trap. “Wasn't a Lancer for too long before I got promoted to Driver. I got lucky; they put me in a fast V-6 on the daily patrol, and I drove that for...well, until last season.”

“Right. But you have a Lancer now. You've had a Lancer for a while,” Morsov said levelly. He had asked Slit. For all that Slit talked about not caring about what others did, he seemed to know the standings of most of the other single Driver-Lancer crews, down to their specific rank and position in the line.

“Yeah.” 

“Shouldn't you be with your Lancer? Getting to work for the day.” And when Stonker did not respond, Morsov cut directly to the point.

“Stonker, I'm no crasher of crews.”

With a sigh, Stonker squared his shoulders. “It...it's not like that between me and Buckie. Really. Bucket and I are just pals. Workmates only. We have an understanding. He knows how I feel about-”

“You should go. Got work to do. Cohort will be here any minute.” Morsov pushed past Stonker to get to the pedals, to turn on the practice car before the War Pups came, and as Morsov stepped past him, Stonker caught him by the arm, drawing him close.

Morsov's eyes narrowed; despite the tall Driver's strong grip, he knew he was stronger than the lanky Stonker and could easily fight his way out. 

“Let go.”

“Look, Morsov...”

“Let go.”

“Please just listen.” Quickly, Stonker let him go, but his shifting hand stayed on Morsov's shoulder, touching him lightly. “I've liked you for ages. Wanted you to ride with me ever since I was on the daily, but you picked someone else, and when I was given a last chance to pick a Lancer that season, I lost out on asking you because you were still riding with him when I promised Buckie.”

“That's...” And as Morsov felt himself run out of words, suddenly he remembered something Slit had said to him a long time ago.

_Ride with Stonker. You'd have a good time with him; he thinks you're more chrome than chrome itself. Asks after you all the time..._

“It's true. Please, just hear me out.”

“Why now? Why not before?” Morsov asked, not pulling away, but not letting Stonker draw any closer, slowly retreating from the tall Driver until he felt the heel of his boot scrape the tire of the practice car behind him.

“Can't...really answer that. I don't know. I thought I could be happy like this, just seeing you from a distance, but...maybe. Okay. At the last War Party, when I saw you go up on the War Rig, I thought. Thought that if we both lived through this fight, that I had to do it, had to ask you, no matter-”

“Had to?” Morsov looked up at him, a bitter laugh on his lips. “Go back to your Lancer, War Boy. If you want a tumble in your car, you don't have to drive far to get it.”

“You don't understand.”

“No?” And Morsov tensed, pushing Stonker's hand off of him. A sick black shame crawled through him when he remembered the past, when as a newly minted Lancer a handsome Driver asked him in front of everyone to meet him after supper at his car. And when Morsov went, there was no one to be seen. He had waited hours, and no one ever came.

Lies, being played the fool. They had laughed at him when dejected, he went back to the nest, realizing it had been a prank. And from what he could gather, from what they whispered among themselves, there had been some serious betting going on, on how long he'd wait.

It was an important lesson that he had almost forgotten, that no one wanted a Buzzard. Not like that, not in their car, in their arms, as their best mate.

The humiliation followed him all the way to the present.

“Morsov, please, I really...”

“Very funny. Always very funny. Got it.” Morsov's mouth twitched humorlessly, and he put his hand into his valuables pocket. “Kind of expensive joke. Should not have accepted.” He pulled out the music box and pressed it into Stonker's hand. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

Stonker's hand's closed around his, and Morsov felt the sharp edges of the music box cut into his palm.

“No, it's for you.” And then he pushed Morsov against the dented practice car and the cold of the steel frame shivered his skin and before Morsov could push back, push away, Stonker leaned down and kissed him.

Not the polite touch of lips of thanks or a promise, but a thirsty kiss, an intimate kiss that shared valuable moisture between two people and Morsov felt his hand go lax and the music box slipped from his grip, but Stonker's hand tightened, pressing it gently between their hands so as not to drop it.

No one had ever kissed him like this before, not even Nux, and maybe no one would ever again and when he realized that, Morsov pulled away violently, his heart pounding painfully.

“Stonker. Go.” Morsov found his fingers reflexively curling around the hard-edged music box.

“I don't know how to prove it to you. The way I feel...”

“Please go.” Morsov said politely, looking away.

“Morsov, please. Believe me.” Stonker sighed, running his long fingers over Morsov's head and his touch sent such shivers along Morsov's skin so that he could feel the little hairs of his body all prickle and rise.

“Wish I could,” Morsov said softly, almost more to himself than anyone else, but then there was a distant commotion echoing through the hallway; the cohort was coming. Somehow they untangled themselves and Stonker was gone before Dart arrived with the dozen or so cohort pups that they had picked out on the first day. Morsov set the pedals, turning on the practice car, automatically going through the motions as if he were fully geared inside and habit turned the handle.

Part-way through the lesson, Morsov found that his hand was still curled around the music box, and so surreptitiously he slipped it into his pocket, hoping no one had noticed.

*****

Slit waited in the doorway of the practice shop, watching Morsov operate the pedals of the practice car. Morsov kept a watchful eye on the War Pup hanging off the top door, gauging the little one's every motion. Of course Morsov would take it easier on the pups, Slit thought; Morsov had always been too soft-hearted. Probably no one could train like the Ace could train, and Slit felt a moment's gratitude that he hadn't trained under an easier War Boy who would have left him weak and mediocre. The Ace's brief tenure as a trainer had left an indelible mark; thousands of days later, only one of the six of his cohort had been Witnessed, and the rest stood in high standing.

After Morsov turned off the car, he helped the War Pup down, giving the child a spin to make it laugh and Slit shook his head. Morsov should have let the pup climb down on its own, to build strength and balance. No one on the Fury Road would help you down off a car, Slit thought, unless it was a Buzzard helping you down into his larder.

“Slit?”

“Finally noticed? Been here for ages,” Slit said, as he watched Morsov set the boy down. 

“Lesson's over. Scram.” Morsov shooed the cohort away, and the pups tore out of the shop around Slit, all elbows and sharp shoulders as they squeezed by.

Accidentally, his hand ran over a boy's bare head, and Slit found himself rubbing his fingers over his palm, before wringing both hands together, as if to wash off the sensation; the faint itch of unevenly growing hair under the white, the bit of dust from the deep pool of sand around the car where the pup must have fallen.

Morsov turned off the practice car, and the shop fell into quiet, punctuated only by the faint electric whine of the overhead lamps. By the time he turned to look at Slit, Slit had both hands dangling loose at his sides.

The silence of the shop once the pups left was deep, engulfing, and they both made eye contact with each other, as if daring one another to speak first.

“So.” 

“Um.” They both spoke at once, but then Morsov gestured for Slit to talk. Slit felt his fists tightening and he had to force his hands to relax. This was Morsov's prerogative as a higher-ranked War Boy, but that didn't mean Morsov had to condescend; after all, weren't they from the same cohort? That meant something to Slit, a certain amount of loyalty that was a stronger bond than their ranks, and he wasn't about to forget it even if Morsov had chosen to forget.

“Been a while since we've talked. Just you and me,” Slit began, deciding to waste Morsov's time if he was going to play these games, and he ran his palm over the dented metal frame of the practice car, smoothed from the touch of many hands, both small and large.

“What about earlier? Oh, right. Nux was there. You're right, we've all been busy.” Morsov smiled to himself fondly at some unknown memory, and Slit looked away.

“You liking this? Being the trainer.”

“Sure. Reminds me of the old days when we-”

“So how's the Ace these days?”

“Slit? Did you have something you wanted to ask?” Morsov said politely, choosing each word carefully, and Slit scowled; it would have been better if Morsov had been his own self, impatient and ready to fight instead of playing the gracious Half-life Noble like he was born to the front of the line.

“You don't have to be so polite with me,” Slit mumbled.

“What's that?”

“Nothing. Nux sent me to ask you if he could get an engine upgrade. V6 or higher.”

“Why doesn't he ask himself?” Morsov wondered.

“B-because I don't know.” Slit snarled, and he felt his plan unraveling, realizing he should have asked something else, something less foolish, something less obvious. 

Slit ran his fingers over the hard screws of the bracer covering his knuckles.

“That's not really what you want? To ask. I know he wants a faster car, but everyone knows that's something to ask the Imperator, not me.” Morsov said apologetically. “I don't have that kind of horsepower.”

“I know.” Slit grit his teeth. “Never mind that. Just...”

“Hmm?”

“Don't...don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Nux.” Slit gave the worn and shredded tire of the practice car a vicious kick, and then another one. “Heard about...you and Nux.”

“Oh?” And that flash of knowing in Morsov's eyes was so unmistakable that when he saw it, Slit knew that it had been true.

“Don't. Don't do that again.” 

“Wasn't planning on it,” Morsov seemed puzzled. “That was just... Look. Slit. We thought we were a crew and it seemed--”

“Shut up!” Slit could feel himself heating up under his white. “I don't want to know. Just stay away. Or...”

“Promise.” Morsov said gravely. “Promise I won't. That only happened when I was his Lancer. And I'm not his Lancer now, you are. You want me to seal the deal on that? Because I will if you want.” 

“No, don't touch me.” Twisting at his waist, Slit gave the dented body of the practice car a sharp punch with his left, leaving four discrete scratches along the metal where the knuckles covering his screws cut into the steel.

The reverberation went all the way through the bones of his arm, and there was something deeply satisfying about the pain.

Morsov watched him leave without a word. But just as Slit crossed the threshold into the warren, he could hear Morsov calling to him:

“Slit! When you're ready to finish the last part of your brand, you know where to find me.”

*****

A long day's work in shop that stretched through supper and the dual-input transmission that allowed both engines to run in tandem or singularly was still not functioning correctly. As it grew later in the evening, Furiosa dismissed most of the supplemental, keeping only her core crew and a handful of specialists, but even they were struggling to diagnose the problem; the Half-life Nobles who had maintained the War Rig were gone, off to Valhalla or the Bulletfarm. 

The Ace knew all the basic workings but it was crewmates like Moki who had done the bulk of the fine tuning of the complex systems. After frustrating hours of troubleshooting, Furiosa found herself wondering if could she ask for Moki back from the Bulletfarm. But then, they might take one of her crewmates in return and she could not imagine having a choice on who they'd take away to work the hungry, thirsty life of a Bulletfarm Boy. The thought of consigning someone like the Ace or Coil to that life sent a shiver down her spine; they were just going to have to depend on their current abilities and hope for the best.

“Pitch is too low,” Tran said as the clamor of the engine died down once the Ace shut it off. “Something's still not right.”

“And how would you know?” a Blackthumb asked, “You a transmission specialist? That what your name stands for?”

“Yes, that's absolutely right. Tran is short for 'Transmission,'” Tran said sarcastically. 

But before Tran could say more, Dart interjected. “He means something's still off.”

“Right,” Tran continued, managing to curb his sharp tongue. “The War Rig has a particular sound, and it's not quite hitting the right pitch. Something's off.”

“Agree.” Nux's voice came up tinny through the engineworks. “It's gearbox or differential. Probably gearbox. No, probably differential. Gearbox. Wait...”

“What do you think?” Furiosa turned to Rose. 

“You want me to settle the argument, Imperator?” Rose looked at her wryly. “Gearbox, since it was purpose-built. Differential came off a scavenge, or so the story goes.”

“She's right. One of the Boys purpose-built the gear box back in the day,” the Ace added, leaning out of the window of the cab.

“Can we ask him?”

“Not possible, Furiosa. Ain't no way to answer questions where he is.” The Ace folded his hands into the V8, and ducked back into the cab.

“Did he write a manual?” Dart asked.

“If he only did, Dart. Then we wouldn't be in this mess,” Tran replied. “Perhaps we should write one ourselves as we go along, for posterity.”

As Furiosa watched the Blackthumbs at work, she heard footsteps as someone strode up behind her, slightly to her right, someone who stopped, waiting for her attention. She briefly ignored them, focused listening to the rest of the Blackthumbs' gearbox discussion. 

Finally ready to talk, Furiosa turned expecting Coil and was surprised to find Morsov waiting patiently.

“Yes?”

“Imperator...” Flustered, Morsov bit his lip. “Furiosa. About this morning. The War Pups...”

“Morsov, it's fine,” Furiosa replied. “I trust your judgment. I remember Skew too, from those days when we were small. Never liked him much myself.”

“Um, that too, but...” Morsov took a deep breath. “Can't stay to help. Should go to see to the pups now. It's getting to be sleep time and someone's gotta round 'em up.”

“Oh, right. The pups.” Furiosa frowned to herself; she had meant for him not to be isolated from the other Half-life Nobles. While the Ace had slept with the pups back in the day, it had not been out of choice; he had been excluded, exiled from his crewmates with no choice in nests. 

“And I need to find a new assistant before we go to Bartertown,” Morsov said apologetically.

“Yes. Ask around and find some possible War Boys. And in the meantime, send Dart to sleep with the children; he's not as useful around the shop. I'd like you to stay here to learn from the Blackthumbs.” 

“Yes, Imperator.” As Morsov turned to go, a Blackthumb stopped him, briefly catching his elbow.

“Wait.”

“Hmm?” Both Furiosa and Morsov turned, surprised.

“Would like to be considered for assistant trainer,” Rose said carefully, meeting their gaze one after another. “Besides, I'm a chassis and bodywork Blackthumb; only reason I'm here now is to stand as Computer. Dart can do any calculations you need just as well.”

“I don't know what you've heard about the job,” Furiosa said wryly, “but the benefits aren't that great. Are you certain you're interested? As I understand, no Blackthumb's ever done anything so...menial.”

“Imperator. May we speak in private?” And there was something about the way that Rose caught her eye that made Furiosa agree, some hint of an unspoken understanding, and they stepped into the deep shadows of the massive central shop, open to the night air.

Most of the great shop lights that lit the central shop at night were off already and it was empty, even the Treadmill Rats were gone, having been sent down with their daily payment of food and water hours ago. 

It was colder here where the wind blew in icy off the waste, and Furiosa shivered, briefly envious of Rose's white, of her warm overalls. It was cold either way but somehow it seemed colder to her without the white. Furiosa crossed her arms, and convinced herself that it was to keep herself warm, not to hide the stump of her hand.

“Yes, Rose? What is it?”

“I don't know how to say this to you, Imperator, but please, let me have that position.”

“I'm not going to say no if you really want to, but wouldn't it be a waste of your time?”

“No.” Rose looked away, looking out at the darkness beyond the central shop and Furiosa wondered what it was that the Blackthumb was looking at, was it the tiny dots of light from the encampments of the Wretched below? The distant darkness of the waste? But when Furiosa followed the Blackthumb's gaze, she found it resting on the dome of the Vault.

“Furiosa. You don't remember me. But I remember you. We were Wives together.”

Furiosa's breath caught sharply in her throat.

“It was a long time ago. I'm older than you; I was already on my way out. You were so young then. The Splendid One, the season's favorite. I didn't recognize you at first either. I don't blame you for not knowing me; I'm much bigger now and you. You...look so different now too, so tall and so strong. But you know what that means. Meant. What we were.”

Furiosa nodded, feeling the word choke up in the back of her throat and unable to say it aloud.

_Breeders_.

Rose shook her head. “Asking you now not as a Blackthumb but as a woman, one to another. Please, let me have that position.”

“W-why?” Furiosa found the word fumbling out of her mouth before she meant to say it, and then when she did she realized why Rose was asking, even before Rose said it herself.

“My boy. Birthed a boy years ago, to an Imperator.” Rose's face grew still, blank, as if somehow her stillness would bring back the memory more clearly. “A girl too, but she's long gone, sold off to Gastown. Lost my boy to the War Boy's Tower when he was a thousand days old, but I know he's here. I want a chance to see him again.”

“You can't let him know,” Furiosa said stiffly. “Even if you find him.”

“Just want to see him again. To see my mother's eyes in his face. I need to know if he's still alive.”

Shivering almost uncontrollably as the cold cut through her, Furiosa turned her back on Rose, facing the open doorway of the well-lit shop. She could see even from here that Coil was watching, keeping eyes on, an old promise that he had made a lifetime ago in the same shop, though from here she was sure he couldn't hear their conversation.

“Who was his father?” Furiosa asked finally, unable to stem her curiosity.

“The Secundus. Not the new one, of course. The one who died,” Rose said. “ _Requiesce_...”

“Then you won't have to worry about that either.”

“I know the rules,” Rose said simply. “Even if Twoie were still alive, I wouldn't tell him either.”

“The War Pups belong to the War Tower. Even if you find him, he can't be favored or given any special treatment. Even if you find him, if you have to beat him, you must.”

“I know the rules, Imperator. So what will it be? Will you say no?”

“To what? Go tell Morsov; he's the one you'll answer to. Find out what his training schedule is like; with a doubled cohort they're doing things differently now, so I don't even know all the details. And try not to skim too much. A little skimming here and there is to be expected, but Skew was taking too many liberties.” 

“Thank you.”

“There's nothing to thank me for.” 

And because she could not help herself, Furiosa glanced back at the glowing jewel of the Vault, the multi-faceted dome gleaming gold in the darkness, eclipsing the moon and stars with its beauty.

*****

Once he saw that Furiosa was settled and bedded down for the night, Coil slipped out of the nest, meaning to get a bit of work he had left in the War Rig's cab during their long evening of trouble and troubleshooting. He trusted that the Ace would have eyes on; after all, the Ace always seemed to have her best interests in mind. 

Ages ago when Coil was first her Driver, he had wondered why the disgraced Half-life Noble had so favored Furiosa. Back then, Coil had initially suspected that there was an obvious reason to the Ace's favor, but when he had asked around, he learned that there were no secret trysts, no late night liaisons. Whatever reasons the Ace had for favoring Furiosa, and whatever attachment she had to the Ace, seemed to be more of the natural regard between a trainer and a War Pup. After all, even Coil remembered his trainer fondly.

In some ways, that made things much simpler; stories abounded of crews torn bitterly apart by the longing of a crewmate for another, someone beyond the immediate cab, and Coil had meant never to be trapped by such a quagmire.

In other ways that made things much harder; she still slept alone, but ever since her long convalescence, the Ace slept closest by her side. Coil wondered how things would change, once it grew cold, and wondered if he could be content knowing that she counted on another for warmth during those long nights. After all, he had never had to share her with any other crewmate and now...

The Ace's standing with Furiosa seemed fairly clear; gambling on a promising War Pup had paid off as the Half-life Noble was raised once more to crew lead, second only to the Imperator, the highest of the rank and file. Coil knew he had nothing to fear from Tran and Dart; the four of them had worked together as the frontrunners for some number of seasons now, each taking turns driving point on those short runs to Gastown and the Bulletfarm. Besides that, Tran and Dart were inseparable. But Morsov, Coil didn't know as much about, only that he and Furiosa had been cohortmates as pups, and that Morsov had saved her life.

 

The light was still on when Coil returned the shop. Curious, wondering who was still here, Coil was surprised to find Morsov standing on a folding ladder beside the War Rig, painting the plain black Driver's door. The contours of a skeletal arm had been lightly marked onto the surface; he was merely filling it in now, setting in color with a glossy crimson.

Coil watched Morsov paint, unwilling to distract the War Boy as he worked, not wanting to cause him to make a mistake. He was surprised that Morsov was doing this freehand; most of the other auto painters he had seen tended to use and reuse stencils. This work would be unique, not replicable.

Once he was certain Morsov was done, Coil scuffed his boot a little against the ground, indicating his presence, and Morsov half-turned to see who had entered the shop.

“Shine. That's beautiful work you've done there,” Coil smiled, and it seemed that Morsov lost some of his sureness with the compliment. Quickly, he capped the small tin of paint and wiped his red-stained fingers with his shop cloth. The red clung to the curve of Morsov's fingernails, and Morsov rubbed his fingers nervously with the stained cloth.

“Thanks. It's no big deal.”

“Looks good. She's going to like it, I'm sure of it.”

“Um.” Morsov glanced at Coil, before turning his attention back to the work. “Sorry, almost done.” Palms pressed flat against the Driver's door, Morsov took a deep breath and exhaled over the contour of the work.

“What's that for?” Coil wondered.

“Oh, someone said you should always do this after painting. The moisture from your breath is supposed to keep the paint from cracking as it dries. And...and it's supposed to give it life. Like putting some of yourself in it.” Morsov smiled, and there was a sweetness, a thoughtful wistfulness to that expression that briefly reminded Coil of someone else, though it was a memory that he couldn't place. “So um. Did she send you to tell me to go to bed down for the night?”

“No, just getting something I forgot.” Coil climbed up onto the crew lead's perch and opened the passenger door, grabbing his sewing kit and a large handful of material: a tightly wound roll of black cloth, pieces of leather, and strips of cut stainless steel, squared off ends filed down smooth.

“What's that?”

“Hmm? Oh this? Just piecing together a new chassis for my Dri-, er, that is, the Imperator” Coil yawned, checking to ascertain he had picked up everything he needed. “Talked to some Revheads during supper; apparently they wear something similar to haul heavy cargo long distances. Organics too, when they store the harvest. We never move heavy things farther than ten or twenty hands, but some of them have to haul things all the way down from the farms, so they build and wear these chassis belts to carry heavier loads. Once it's properly pieced, I'll take it down to the armory and pay the Organic there to run it through the sewing machine.”

“That's real shine. Wish I could do something like that to help her more. She's been hurting, hasn't she?” And despite Morsov's guarded expression, his cautious phrasing of the question, his warm brown eyes told clearly a tale that Coil should have noticed before.

It made Coil wonder if she knew, what she thought of it. He frowned faintly to himself, wondering if she would ever reciprocate, and again his thoughts turned back to who would be by her side once it grew cold.

“Hmm. Should be getting to sleep,” Coil said curtly, hands tightening on the bundle, iron hard under his knuckles but cloth yielding soft beneath his palm.

“Huh? Oh right. Guess I should clean up before I go,” Morsov yawned. “Don't wait on me, it'll be a few.”

“All right. Heading out first then. Don't stay up too late. Turn off the light when you're done.”

“Sure.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for rape/non-consensual sex, sexual content, masturbation, implied/referenced self-harm, etc.

Again, gone. 

Eyes burning and bleary, Slit had willed himself to wake up a little earlier than usual, to see if he could catch Nux before he left, but again Nux had woken before everyone else and had already left the nest.

How Nux did it without waking him, Slit was not certain, only that when he wanted to, Nux could move like a ghost.

Slit huffed a sigh of frustration and closed his eyes; there was nothing more to do than to perhaps catnap before it was properly time to wake.

But he couldn't sleep, his thoughts a blur of questions and wondering until he got up out of the nest, sloughing off sand that fell around him like a fine veil.

His boots were where he had left them, and beside them a blank space where Nux's tall boots would have been, if Nux were still here asleep.

Left behind again.

 

“Left. Right. Left again.”

A half-asleep War Pup sat behind the wheel of the War Rig, turning it back and forth as Nux directed from inside the engine compartment.

Slit strode into the shop deliberately, stepping so that his footsteps would be heard, but no one seemed to notice, least of all Nux. Even the War Pup, yawning so broadly that Slit could see the gaps in its missing puppy teeth didn't seem to notice.

Walking up to the War Rig, Slit briefly peered into the engine where the covers had been taken off, and he could just barely see a smudge of white inside. He gave the skeletal frame of the chassis two taps, as though he were riding Lancer.

It was a long minute of waiting, but then Nux slid out from beneath the hood on the mechanic's creeper, controlling his momentum with the ridged edge of his booted heel.

“Hmm?” Nux peered up at Slit. “What're you doing up so early, Slit?”

All the words that he had meant to say dried up in his mouth as Slit met Nux's eyes.

“N-nothing. Just wanted to know what you want me to do with the Revheads today.”

“Oh, that. Right. I have a list for you, if you don't mind.” Nux slid out from under the War Rig reluctantly, and sat up on the creeper, sliding it back and forth absently with his feet as he thought aloud. “Leave all the transmission tuning; I'll do that myself. Don't want them fiddling with it. Timing belt, inspect all the hoses and replace any cracked ones, make sure to pack extra hoses for the road, flush the brakes...”

*****

“Crew!”

Coil slid out from underneath the hood at the sound of Win's voice. 

“Yeah, boss?”

“Come on, no more dawdling, O my Lancer,” Win hauled him up off the creeper. “Look at you, covered in engine oil. Storm is icumen in and you're still working?”

“Um, just wanted to finish this bit...”

“What did I do to deserve a Lancer like you?” And when Win caught his eye with that sly humor that the older Driver often evinced, Coil smiled, knowing that there was no real remonstrance to his words.

 

“Shouldn't we be with the others? In the shelter area?”

“Probably. But a handful of War Boys more or less, no one's really going to notice.” 

“What if they do?”

“Then I'll tell them that I misunderstood the order and went to the wrong shelter. This warren is quite big enough such that we could shelter near anywhere we like; no point in being jammed in knee to chin like a mess of badly clustered bolts.” Win wiped off lingering traces of engine oil from Coil's face with his shop cloth. “There, almost presentable.”

“I didn't know this part of the warren before...”

“No? You didn't explore as a pup? I did. Restlessly found every quiet place I could in this hulking Tower. This and the Third; they shut off all access to the Immortan's Tower ages ago. Deep within the stone, lurks the gallivanting War Boy...”

“Win, what are you talking about? And stop that, you're wiping off my white. I don't have extra on me.”

“It's fine, Lancer. I have some. And what's wrong with seeing your handsome face once in a while?” Win's fingers lingered on a patch of bare skin along Coil's chin. 

“It's weird not wearing the white. We're not decontaminating.”

“Maybe we shouldn't wear it all the time. It'd be nice to see your eyes without trying to find them hidden in the pits of jet-blackened eye sockets.”

“Win, I don't wear the black up high. I'm not wearing it now.”

“I know, but...” Win sighed. “Well, why don't we get some rest? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Give me your hands; they're filthy.”

 

The storm banged against the metal door, and Coil shivered on the drafty stone floor. It was not as comfortable as the nests, though it wasn't as if they could sleep there during storms; as it stood, they already had plenty of work ahead of them. They'd have to shovel out the top layer of the nests after the storm, as contaminated dust from the waste would rain down through the ventilation shafts, and he thought about the other cleaning they'd have to do. Sweep the central shop, noses and mouths covered with their dust wraps. Wipe off the cars; slide them into neutral and maneuver them around so that dust that collected around their tires could be properly swept out. Hours and hours of cleaning, an entire day or more, the entire warren working hard, depending on how long the storm lasted.

“Win? Are you still awake?” Coil whispered, pulling Win closer against his side.

“Mmm.” Win made a non-committal sound in his throat, but then yawning, dragged himself back from the precipice of sleep. “What is it?”

“When do you think the storm will end?”

“Oh, Coil. Does it matter?” Win stroked Coil's bare cheek. 

“I'm just worried about the Bartertown run. Doesn't this set us back at least a day in the shop?”

“You can't worry about what you can't directly control,” Win said. “So put those thoughts away. There's nothing wrong with idleness; storm gives us some rare free time to ourselves, a little holiday, just you and me.”

“But...”

“Hmm?”

“Won't we get in trouble for being here? Away from the others.”

“It doesn't matter. I'll take any shots that are fired; after all, I'm your Driver, aren't I?”

“I thought I was supposed to take the shots for you,” Coil said seriously, and Win laughed.

“Ever the optimist. Idealist, that is. No, no taking any shots for me, love. I don't want that from you. I take my own shots,” Win took Coil's hand, kissing the bare skin of his fingers, one at a time. “You taste like a War Boy.”

Coil laughed, Win's clever fingers tickling his palm. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Iron. Gunpowder. Engine oil. Salt.” Win's lips moved along the side of Coil's thumb, his tongue hot against Coil's skin. 

“And what other War Boys have you been tasting, hmm?” 

“Just you,” Win said lightly, but there was a faint tension to those words and so Coil dragged him close for a lingering kiss.

“You taste like lentils, Win. And dried greens. And maybe something sweet too, like water,” Coil laughed.

“Like a War Boy.”

“Like a War Boy,” Coil repeated, his hands sliding between the elastic band of the suspenders and Win's chest, slipping them off before unfastening Win's tool-heavy trousers.

As Win stroked him lazily, as his breath caught in his throat and aching pleasure gripped him as tightly as Win's hand, Coil realized that his Driver was kissing only those bits of exposed skin that had been revealed by the scrubbing edge of the shop cloth. A patch of skin along his chin, his left cheekbone, his forehead and his right eyelid...

Wind rattled the door, and he was gone.

 

Coil woke, hard and aching. He heaved a sigh, thinking of slinking off to the empty shop, but eventually the sound of his crewmates breathing around him in their sleep shook him out of his thoughts of the past.

The memories lingered on his skin, tingling, and Coil found his hands moving in an old pattern, fingers touching his lips lightly. His hands moved, a little rusty from disuse, but he remembered the motions all the same. And then he touched the tips of his fourth and fifth finger, the side of his hand, before pointing to the darkness above.

No response, but he knew that already going in.

He folded his hands against his chest, holding the memory tight as he felt the ridge of that first spiraling brand against his heart. 

When he dared to open his eyes, faint moonlight revealed that she was facing him.

Though she slept away from him, she had turned in her sleep, and there, no more than an arm's length away, she slept deeply.

Her right hand was pressed against her cheek, crushed gently, folded against her face the way a child might sleep, carelessly comfortable. 

He remembered she liked to sleep on her left in the same manner, but what could she do now, other than perhaps shield her face from the sand with a clean shop cloth? Or maybe it was the Ace's shoulder that she slept against.

Coil didn't know for certain; he had made it a point not to look.

Her eyelashes left the faintest black mark of a shadow against her skin, and while she had not worn the white in a while, moonlight washed her white as a War Boy, and so for a long, breathless moment, Coil could still pretend she was his and only his.

He reached out to her, to touch that pale, ghostly hand that was no longer there, the only part of her he could safely touch without waking her.

*****

Morsov watched them work side by side, her smile dimpling the corners of her mouth, and wondered what it was like to have someone like that, a best mate. Coil knelt beside the Imperator, piecing together the chassis over her side, dragging pins from a dented tin to hold the metal parts in place, marking pale lines of chalk along the black fabric. Cut here, pin there, like this, like this, better. 

When she had six thousand days, she was already a Lancer. What had he been doing when he had the same number of days? Just a Revhead, barely promoted. He didn't even make Lancer until Slit did, even though Slit was younger. Held back, having not completed all his training through no fault of his own, and he had to work hard, harder than everyone else for almost a thousand days before someone finally believed in him enough to send him into the Lancer pool.

All those seasons in the Lancer pool he had been alone, an unpaired Lancer clinging to the metal strut of the support truck as it bounced along through the dust and dirt. She had a best mate for so many seasons that it took both hands to count, and what did he have? Riding as a Second Lancer on a support truck on the off-hand side, not even on the side protecting the Driver, not trusted with the honor of riding prime. 

Morsov touched the oldest of his brands, the stylized tires that marked his first notable kill, the battle with the three vehicles he took out, and remembered the frightened eyes of the Bandits as they saw him swinging by on the support truck, thunderstick in hand.

The Ace had encouraged him to put on the brands; it was so that no one could forget, the Ace had said. So everyone would have to face the fact that you fought so well. Remind them if they forget, and remind yourself in case you forget, the kinds of things we have to do to protect our own and to keep ourselves alive.

It was strange how the circling brands were a part of him, and yet, seemed a stranger's skin, a stranger's accomplishments, so far away.

Since then he had picked up more and it was getting to the point that he thought that perhaps he should begin a new column, a ledger of kills along his skin.

Furiosa laughed at something that Coil had said, but it was not something that he identified as funny; it must have been something between the two that the two had only for themselves. Morsov had seen it; best mates had these sort of things all the time. Words, actions, looks and glances that spoke of a shared past that he could not imagine.

Though he had had a Driver once, it was never like this between them.

Morsov touched his lips lightly, and then his hand briefly wandered to the music box.

“All right, all right. Coil, is this enough?” she said. “Morsov's been kept waiting and I promised a meet with the Blackthumbs before morning meal.” 

“It's enough to go by. I'll finish the rest by symmetry and have it made up. Will probably be done by later today, so don't wander off too far, Driver,” Coil smiled.

“Down the line or up it?”

“Along, side-to-side.”

And they both laughed and Morsov wondered what their jokes could have meant to each other.

 

“You wanted to show me something?” 

Confronted by those clear, green eyes, eyes that reminded Morsov of the distant top of the Immortan's Tower on gray fog-wreathed mornings, it was enough to still his breath for a moment, to remind himself that he could not help but feel for her, ever since he hauled her up bodily up top the War Rig and bandaged her poor broken hand, small and pale but surprisingly strong with a Driver's grip.

Back then, her hot blood had clung to his skin for hours later, drying into his white, flaking off as he moved, and he realized he might have been the last one to have held that lost left hand.

Despite the prohibitions against it, he had tasted a tiny drop of her blood up atop the War Rig, when he knew no one was looking. That way he'd always remember her, but the shame of being seen as a Buzzard thirsty for blood soup had made him regret it for days; even now, the guilt faintly lingered when he thought of that salty, coppery taste.

Morsov tried to smile, in what he thought would be a convincingly light-hearted manner, as though it were nothing, but on his skin it felt as though that smile was already awkward and artificial. 

“Yes. It's good, maybe? Heard that we're allowed to leave a mark on the War Rig, so I had some ideas...” And he led the way to the War Rig's shop, where the Blackthumbs were already under the hood again despite the early hour, making their first round of pre-run inspections.

Furiosa was quiet when she saw it, the forward-pointing skeletal hand, and Morsov wondered what she was thinking, if she liked it or not.

Finally, after a long silence, she spoke.

“Is that why your fingers are red?”

“Oh, um.” Reflexively Morsov rubbed his fingers against his canvas trousers. “You noticed?”

“It's hard not to. It stands out against the white.” In a quick motion, Furiosa hauled herself up onto the crew lead's perch, her hand clinging to the leather grip of the open window briefly before she shifted her weight so that her left elbow was hooked onto the sill of the door. She studied the drawing in detail, the elegant fingers of her right hand running thoughtfully over the contours of the blood red bones.

“You know, Morsov. I don't know what they did with my hand,” she said softly, and Morsov blinked, surprised. “Maybe it's up in the soil in the War Farm now. Or maybe they dropped it down into the Wretched, tossed it over the side. I don't know. Don't think I ever will.”

“If it's an Imperator's hand, they'd put it in with the green up in the Immortan's Tower.”

“I know.” She said it almost to herself, more than him. “But I wasn't an Imperator then. I was nobody.”

“A Driver.”

“A wreck of a War Boy, ready to be trashed.” Her mouth moved into a humorless grin, but then she shook off the expression with a brisk motion of her head. Furiosa turned to him. “Morsov, I'm proud to have you beside me. Thank you for the hard work. And thank you for thinking of me when you painted this. I truly like it.” She pressed the flat of her hand to the skeletal hand, covering the fingers and when she smiled, he found himself foolishly happy, even though he knew it was not the same dimpled smile that she gave her former Lancer, but a much more polite, tempered expression.

“It's nothing, really.”

*****

“Is something wrong?” Furiosa looked up from her mug of hot chicory. “You seem troubled.”

“Nah, of course not. Nothing's wrong,” the Ace feinted, pressing his hand against his side. Day by day, he could feel bones knitting stronger; more sleep and better rations made it feel as though he was healing at a pace exponentially faster than he was in the infirmary. The pain was already beginning to be no more than a memory, other than an occasional twinge, but it couldn't hurt to play up the injury a little longer, give her something to think about other than seeing the truth in his face.

It was disturbing to him that she had read his thoughts so clearly. No one had read him this accurately since Acosta.

A sudden jolt of very real pain, though it did not come from healing bones.

“Ace, are you all right?”

“Just a passing ache,” the Ace waved it off, giving his side a firm pat. “See, it's gone.”

“Good. I wouldn't want to leave you behind for fear of you losing your grip on the War Rig.” Furiosa set her cup down; 

“Leave me behind?” The Ace chuckled, though he could feel how artificial that sounded and wondered if she could tell. “That ain't an option, Furiosa.”

“No?” Furiosa paused, considering. “No, I suppose you're right; I couldn't do the run without you.”

“You probably could, but would you want to?” The Ace pulled a face to make her smile.

“No, no. Ace, I have no experience grading the goods. You'll have to help me with the business end, teach me how that works.”

“Moki knew it better. War Boy had a sharp eye for trade, but I'll do my best.”

“I wouldn't expect any less. Speaking of sharp eyes, that reminds me, the other day, the Imperators? The Tertius and the Quartus? I noticed they wanted a word with you,” Furiosa's eyebrows raised in query, and the Ace waved it off.

“Nothing, of course,” he lied, finishing off his drink with a smack of his lips. “Just wanted catch up, to talk about some old times, that's all. Back when we was all pups and the full warren weren't but a dream of the future.”

She seemed to accept that, swirling her cup to get all the dark dredges before downing the rest; that made him feel a little more at ease, but then she gave him the side of her eye.

“Always something on your mind, isn't there Ace? Well, you don't have to tell me everything, but sometimes I wish I knew what you were thinking.”

“Just planning for the future, like always.”

“Always.”

 

Guilt gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, corrosive; the Ace had never had to hide anything from Acosta, and here, that business with the Immortan's Tower meant that he could not tell Furiosa the truth.

These days it seemed that wherever he turned, the Ace could not help but remember Acosta. The Ace rubbed at his cheekbone absently, the itch of the healing brand already fading and he rubbed it a little more, hoping to remember the sear of the hot knife. 

He lived with the burden of the loss every day, even though he could not articulate why losing Acosta was a greater loss to him than anyone else. If the Ace looked to his inner arms, where the litany of loss was written articulate and he could name each and every scar, he could name every one that had gone before him. Lived, Ended, Witnessed.

But for some reason the former Imperator's death seemed to cling to him like no one else's death had, as if the recently Witnessed tugged at the tips of his fingers, and at the corners of his eyes for attention. 

Prepping the War Rig made him think of Acosta, after all, who had run more trade runs? No one Imperator and not even the Daddy had run so many over the seasons, ages and ages beyond the memories of the younger Revheads and Lancers.

Eating in the mess hall made him think of Acosta, after all, who was it he looked toward in those days when he was exiled from his crew? In those long, lonely days, he had watched the Imperator's table from a distance, hoping to catch Acosta's eye, though at the same time hoping not to.

And of course sleeping. Because who else had slept by his side, against his back, snugged in close when it was cold, at fingerbreadth in the warm for so many seasons upon seasons? Ever since they were boys and not even War Boys yet, and they ran the trade route on the old clattering trade rig that like Moki now lived its days a servant of the Bullet Farm.

No one knew him anymore, not the way Acosta did. Acosta who just about knew how many freckles Frances had on her face, Acosta who knew how much he hated bitter greens but ate everything without complaint, Acosta who knew how he felt about storms. Even Furiosa who now knew some of it, no more than the bare bones, could never know as much about him as Acosta did.

Shaking off dark thoughts, the Ace pulled himself up into the cab of the War Rig, looking for a misplaced tool, something he had lent Tran and forgotten to ask for it back. It was on the floor of the backseat, just as Dart had described.

With a huff, he climbed into the back seat of the cab and sat down. As the Ace leaned over to pick up the tool, he looked up and his eye caught a glimpse of the stained and worn leather grip of the window sill and--

 

After Ace rolled up the window, he briefly ran his fingers over the smooth new leather of the grip, admiring the way the shiny bolts that secured it to the frame gleamed in the flickering light of the lantern.

“Shutter the lamp, Alex,” Acosta said again, and Ace carefully turned down the flame to almost nothing.

In the wan light of the shuttered lantern they lay together, legs twined, and Ace braced himself on his elbow, leaning against the leather back of the seat so as to not take up as much space, not letting his full weight collapse onto Acosta.

“Now that it's full dark...let's break in this new rig.” Acosta's breath was hot against Ace's ear, and Ace felt the blunt edge of Acosta's teeth nibbling at the tender flesh of his earlobe, sending a strange feeling coursing down through his spine. “Relax. Don't be so polite.”

“I know, I know. Just...” And he laughed silently as Acosta dragged him down, so that they were pressed together, skin to skin, nothing between them but Ace's thin coat of white. 

“Alonso, you keep this up and you're going to get white all over.”

Acosta laughed, and it made Ace smile; Acosta never laughed like this around the others, only on those rare occasions when they were alone together. Acosta ran his fingertips along Ace's throat, feeling the rough prickle of stubble. “So I am. Does it matter?”

“The others? They gonna say something if we're both walkin around smudged tomorrow morning.”

“So let them. It's no secret that we've been best mates for some time now.” Acosta's hands tugged at Ace's white-stained top belt. “Do you know how long I've been waiting for this? Our first run without the Daddy and our first night together on the road. We finally have some time alone. All the trouble of getting this new rig built was worth it; I've been waiting patiently since last time. When was that?”

“Before harvest?”

“Yes, that sounds right. It's been too long. You cannot know how much I've wanted you since.”

“Hmm.” Ace made a little noise, about to say something, but then Acosta's hand slipped into his trousers, stroking him, teasing him. And since he didn't want to disappoint Acosta, Ace reciprocated, unzipping Acosta's heavy black canvas trousers, finding Acosta hardening quickly at his touch.

“You want me to...?” But before he could say anything, Acosta pushed him up gently, hands cupping Ace's biceps.

“Let me...” And Acosta shifted so he could bend down and his mouth, hot and wet, closed over Ace's cock. Acosta's scarred lips brushed against the hair of his groin and Ace tensed, hips pulling away.

“No?” Acosta drew back, licking his lips and even in the faint light, Ace could see that Acosta's dark eyes were bright with desire.

“Maybe not yet,” Ace admitted. “Can we? What we were doin before?” 

“Yes, of course. Whatever you want.” And Acosta drew him back down onto the broad back bench of the War Rig and briefly Ace rested his head against Acosta's chest, hearing the strong beat of his heart before Acosta's wandering hands spurred him into action.

Spit in his palm, Ace closed his hand around Acosta's erection, feeling its heat, the little twitches of muscle and tendon, and he smiled faintly to himself, hearing Acosta's breath catch, feeling against his ear the hitches of breath, the sighs.

Ace ran a finger over a corner of Acosta's scar with his free hand, tracing the tip of a valve of the V8, and kissing Acosta, caught Acosta's sighs in his mouth.

Acosta came first, shooting hot into Ace's cupped palm, and Ace drew back to lick his own hand, his fingers, licking himself clean.

“Why do you do that?”

“Free meal,” Ace grinned and Acosta chuckled, drawing Ace close as he caught his breath. 

“Alex. It's mine and I should be doing that, if you would only let me...”

“No. ...that is uh. Like how it tastes,” and Ace could feel himself blushing beneath his white, ears hot. “It's good.”

Ace was rewarded by a rare, genuine smile, and he liked the way it lit up Acosta's eyes.

“Then if it's so good, give me a taste too,” Acosta said, taking his hand, and the lascivious motion of Acosta's tongue over the fleshy mound at the base of his thumb made Ace shiver.

“Does that feel good?”

“Yeah.”

“What about this?” Acosta's calloused hand stroked Ace's cock, and Ace's breath caught in his throat.

“Like it fine,” Ace sighed, uncertain, afraid that Acosta could sense his reluctance. “I like anything with you, Alonso. Really.”

“Then why don't we find out what you like, Alex? What do you want me to do? Do you like this?” Acosta's hand moved carefully, away from Ace's cock to gently cup his scrotum, lightly manipulating his testicles and the soft, tender skin, curling hair rasping his palm.

“It's okay,” Ace admitted.

“Okay? What about...” And Acosta's scarred lips brushed against Ace's nipple and Ace's breath caught. He flinched at the touch unintentionally.

“Sorry.” Ace flushed, ashamed, not wanting Acosta to know that he was disinterested. “Sorry, didn't mean to...”

“No, no.” Acosta pulled away, dark eyes fixed on Ace. “Tell me what you want, Alex. What you'd like me to do.”

Ace thought it over, trying to think of some answer that would please Acosta, but then the truth came out, as it always did. It was as if he couldn't hide anything from Acosta, even if he wanted to.

“Dunno.”

“Don't know? Don't know because you don't know what you want, or don't know because you're afraid to say what you want?”

Ace settled against Acosta's shoulder, realizing he it was not that he didn't know or that he couldn't say what he wanted, it was that he couldn't say what he didn't want. Not in such a way that anyone would understand, not even Acosta.

“Tell me what's on your mind.”

“Um. Maybe... Maybe. Uh. Just like being close to you. That's all.” Ace mumbled, and deep inside he felt himself tense, as if preparing himself for a blow, the way they were beaten sometimes by Prim when they didn't work hard enough.

“That's all?” Acosta drew his hands away from Ace, eyes narrowing. “You don't like it with me.”

“Don't dislike it,” Ace shrugged, and a beat later he realized that was the wrong thing to say.

“That's not the same as liking it.” Firmly nudging Ace off of him, Acosta gestured for Ace to button himself up. “You should have said something before. All this time?”

“No, no. It's fine, for true. Like to see you happy. I don't mind,” Ace said as he sorted himself out, zipping himself back up again, simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

“No. It's not fine. Not if you're unhappy, not if you don't want...” Acosta sighed, staring at his hands. “All this time.” 

Silence fell between them, and Ace knew he should say something but the words would not come to him.

Eventually, Acosta turned to him. He touched Ace's lips lightly with the tips of his fingers. “Alex. Is it all right if I kiss you? One last time.”

“Yeah, of course that's fine.” And when they kissed, he tasted Acosta as he did before, Acosta's scarred lips lingering on his for a long moment before drawing away.

“Alex, I've made a fool of myself with you-”

“No, it's all right,” Ace said quickly.

“It's not.” Acosta kissed him again, the chaste kiss of a promise, with a distance that Ace could already feel. “I won't ask of you. Not anymore.”

“Alonso, you know that--” 

“That's enough, Ace. We won't discuss this matter again. Take the Driver's seat and get some rest, crew. And put out the lamp.”

 

The Ace stared blindly at his hands, turning the tool over and over again. There were so many things he still wanted to say, should have said, and now he could never say them again, not even to himself.

*****

Slit came back around the War Rig shop after the end of the work day but before supper. Unsurprisingly, Nux was busy. Sliding out from beneath the War Rig, Nux took the day's updates impatiently, not even bothering to sit up from the mechanic's creeper. Yes, that was an appropriate use of the day's work, yes whatever grade of tire Slit chose would be fine as long as the treads were new and deep, give the Revheads a half-bar each tomorrow once they finished all the remaining tasks and no, Nux was not ready for supper, he'd be working through.

“Again? You want me to stay and help?”

“No, you can't help me with this. I'm busy. Go eat and rest, we'll talk later.” And Nux disappeared once more beneath the engine with a kick of his boot, the creeper sliding his black-smeared body beneath the War Rig. This was how many days in a row now? Slit counted them off on his fingers and was dismayed at the count.

Slit caught the Ace on his way out.

“What's he doing down there? Is the gear box done yet?”

“Yeah, gear box been done for a while. What, you didn't hear about it? Anyway, now he's documenting. War Boy's writin a manual for the engine,” the Ace said, shaking his head in disbelief. “He started with the gear box. Now he's going through the rest of the engine in detail.”

Slit scowled. “Is it really that important?”

“Maybe it don't seem that important, but...” the Ace shrugged. “It's good thinking ahead for the future. Got the Imperator's approval and everything. Work's gonna pay for an engine upgrade, by next run. Probably push him up to a midfielder in fifty days or less if he works hard at training.”

“He's got his own work to do.”

“Probably. Don't we all?” The Ace said pointedly, and at that, Slit knew he had been dismissed.

Slit walked alone to the mess. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, debating whether or not to go in, before getting in line at the head of the Lancers, sparking a fast, fierce brawl for position that he decisively lost.

*****

Lost in thought, Morsov found himself unusually restless, a restlessness he hadn't felt since he was a child, wandering the hidden ways of the dark warren alone.

He wasn't sure what it was exactly that was making him feel so unbalanced. After all, it wasn't as though work had been left undone. After supper he had a long meet with the new assistant trainer and together they had settled the work allotments of not only the cohort pups but also the Organic pups. By the time they were done, work in the War Rig shop was finished for the night; even Nux had gone to bed.

Morsov had walked part-way to the upper warren before he realized that he could not face the thought of lying down. Of being in the same room with the others. 

Of being in the same room with her.

Unable to sleep, Morsov wandered the warren blindly.

 

It was not a surprise to have ended up where he did, the shop that he had served for the longest; there was something to his traitorous feet that seemed to automatically lead him somewhere familiar if he wasn't thinking.

Morsov walked into the shop. Pale moonlight filled the room with a cold, blue light, and it was silent, not even the quiet hum of the electricals that seemed to permeate every working room was present.

His eyes darted to the car, unable to look away and for a moment he forgot where he was, thinking that perhaps all of this was a dream. In the moonlight, it gleamed like something from a vision of Valhalla, glimmering like fresh water. In those days when he was riding, it was a matte black, but now it was a bright chrome, shining silver in the cold light. The Elvis car, as it was now called, and had been called ever since his former Driver redesigned it and then made Imperator. Elvis had earned that first V6 engine on his own; the second, Morsov had won for him on a long run back from Bartertown, capturing a Bandit vehicle alive and intact. A great and brave deed at the time, lauded by many, but he knew Elvis had never forgiven him for it.

He peeked under the canvas cover protecting the machine gun while it was in shop. Without daily maintenance, the massive weapon atop the rig was slowly turning to rust. Morsov sighed, but it was no longer any of his business. Accidentally, his fingers touched the shining grips of the Lancer's basket and--

 

“Lancer.”

“Hmm?” Morsov looked up from examining the metal grips along the Lancer's basket.

“Here.” Elvis tossed him something; reflexively, Morsov caught it one-handed. It was a dustwrap, nothing fancy, what they called a Polecat's dustwrap, the kind that was minimal to the point of near uselessness, made from so little fabric that it barely covered the mouth, more decorative than functional.

“Thank you, Driver.” Touched, Morsov pulled the dustwrap over his head, settling it around his neck. It was a little small, a bit tight, but he would manage. “Have a present for you too-”

“Call me boss.” Elvis snapped, cutting him off before he could reach into his tool pocket. “And I don't need anything from the likes of you.”

“But I thought...” Morsov blinked. “Now that we're a crew?”

“Wanted a Lancer to do the work, not a best mate,” Elvis' hard eyes fixed on his, daring him to speak. “You'll do as your told and otherwise keep your opinions to yourself.”

Speechless, Morsov shut his mouth, wondering what he had done wrong, what he had said wrong.

“You're to sleep in the basket when we're on the road. You're not allowed inside the cab. Understand?”

“Y-yes, boss.”

“If I ever catch you trying to go inside, I'll thrash you myself.”

Morsov nodded his understanding, mouth dry. A sick, hollow feeling went through his gut; he had said the words, he had sworn the oaths and made the promises to protect this War Boy's life as his own; this was not a provisional ride but his own Driver.

“You know you're lucky that anyone would take a Buzzard,” Elvis spat, as if saying the word had left a foul taste in his mouth. “Only War Boy around the warren that's willing to take you on is me. You should be grateful someone gave you an opportunity to ride higher than the daily.”

“Yes, boss. I am grateful, truly.”

Elvis stared at him with narrowed eyes, wondering what to make of Morsov's use of the intimate. “You're to address me proper, at all times.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Now get over here, and get on your knees.”

Morsov froze.

 

Elvis' hands on his wrists were hard, gripping him with a bruising grip and Morsov gasped as he was shoved up against the hard curve of the frame of the car, Elvis' hips grinding against him from behind.

He tried pulling away; he couldn't help it, it was as if he had no control over his reactions as fear took over and Elvis snarled as he pinned Morsov to the car so that he could not run.

Tool-heavy trousers dropped to the ground with a clank and clatter. As cold air shivered his bare skin, Morsov felt Elvis' grease-slicked cock blunted against his bare buttocks.

“Please, no!” Morsov's heart pounded, hammering as fast as Elvis shoved his legs apart.

“You do as I say, crew. Stop fighting me,” Elvis's harsh voice hissed in his ear and he suddenly caught Morsov's dustwrap in an iron grip, choking him.

Gasping for air, Morsov gritted his teeth as Elvis thrust up against him, as--

 

“Morsov?” 

A familiar voice, but it startled him all the same and Morsov flinched, jumping back from the car. He rubbed his palm against his trousers as though he could scrub the memory from his fingers.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you.” Stonker grimaced, embarrassed. “Um. Like what I've done with the car?”

“The paint...” Morsov managed, as he took deep breaths to get his heart to slow down.

“Took off more than just paint. Had the entire the body ground down. Took off a few kilos! Not that it matters too much with dual V6s but less weight is less weight. Gives Buckie some breathing space on supper,” Stonker grinned. “Got this idea from another War Boy round the shops, a new Driver.”

“Nux.” Morsov said, immediately knowing who it had been.

“Yeah, Nux. Your cohortmate, right? Some pretty good ideas for a new Driver.”

'Won't it go to rust?” Morsov asked. “After a few seasons.”

“Sure, but it'll be a beautiful red.” Stonker patted the gleaming chassis. “Get to ride shiny and chrome for a season or two, and then it turns the color of a stormy evening sky. Best of everything, really. Didn't like the black much anyhow.”

“Me neither,” Morsov confessed, and Stonker met his eyes.

There was a long pause as they both searched for the right words to say, or any words at all.

“So what are you doing here?” Awkwardly, they both said it at once, and Morsov gestured to Stonker, letting him answer first.

“Couldn't sleep because I couldn't remember if I recapped the oil filler,” Stonker said, almost bashfully.

Morsov gestured to the car, and Stonker unlatched the bonnet, propping it open. 

“Hm. It's closed,” Stonker closed up the car, shaking his head. “Dozed off early and had a nightmare that it was open and it was storming. So sand got in and gunked up the engine, bricking the whole thing dead.” 

“Is that what Drivers dream?” Morsov wondered.

“Well, that and...” Stonker shrugged, ducking his head a little, an awkward motion. “Um, what are you doing here? Sorry, that wasn't supposed to sound like I'm trying to interrogate you, really, I...”

Morsov held up his hand, signaling pax. “Just...taking a walk before bedding down. Should get going.”

“No, please. Morsov. Please stay.”

Morsov smiled faintly to himself, almost bitterly. “You don't mean to say it. Those words.”

“No, I do. Because look,” Stonker pointed up toward the airshaft. “Look at the brightness of the moon. We'll be off on the Fury Road again, not tomorrow but the next day. If not now, when will we have time alone like this again?”

At that, Morsov had no words.

Carefully, Stonker approached him, with slow, deliberate steps.

Stonker offered Morsov his hands, and hesitantly, Morsov took them, staring at long-fingers clean and pale that seemed a sharp contrast to his work-stained hands, and briefly, Morsov was ashamed that he had not wiped his hands off earlier.

“Don't know what you want.” Morsov said, not looking at Stonker. 

“About last time...” Stonker began, but Morsov shook his head.

“We don't have to talk about that.” 

“No. Probably not. But I'm sorry.” Stonker's hands closed around his gently, and Morsov stared ahead, his eyes lowering to trace the pink contours of the healing brand on Stonker's chest, remembering every line, every curve as if his hand had was still marking the work over smooth skin, following the rising, falling curve of Stonker's pectorals.

“Don't be.” Morsov drew his hands away. “It was an accident.”

“No. It wasn't.” And cautiously, Stonker put his hands around Morsov's shoulders, drawing him close and Morsov found himself pressed against Stonker's chest, Stonker's cheek pressed against the bare skin at the top of his head. “Maybe, a little. But I meant it.” 

There was nothing that could be said further; though he could feel the pistons of his heart pounding in his chest, Morsov found himself slowly untensing in Stonker's grip. The embrace was firm and warm, with a straightforward honesty that seemed to transmit from skin to skin, through the thin layers of obscuring white and into Morsov's own flesh.

Slowly, Morsov dared to put his arms around Stonker's waist.

“Sorry about earlier,” Stonker whispered. “I hope you'll forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive.” Morsov tightened his arms, briefly, and let go, thinking that Stonker would follow suit and let him go as well. “But you have a crewmate.”

“Bucket won't mind. His best mate's a shopbound Revhead.”

“Then why'd he agree to pair up with a Driver? Why isn't he just on the daily?”

“Because paired Lancers make more than daily patrol boys. He gives all his extra to his Revhead. Bristow's got family down below to feed...it's complicated. Don't know all the details; that's Buckie's business and I promised not to get involved. But we crewed up...that is, I chose Bucket on purpose. Because he wouldn't ask for more from me than-”

“Stonker.” Carefully, Morsov eased out of Stonker's arms. “Go back to your nest. Go back to your Lancer.”

“Immorta's truth, Morsov. I swear it.”

“Go to bed.”

“Stay here with me,” Stonker said suddenly, impulsively. “With me, in the car. Just for tonight and I won't ask for more.”

Morsov froze, unable to say what he wanted to say. To make his feet move, heading out the door. To shake his head no.

“You don't have to. That is, we don't have to do anything. We'll do what you want, Morsov. Whatever it is. Why don't we just sleep? I...just want to be close to you.”

Morsov glanced at the shadowed darkness within the car, mysterious and inviting, and imagined what it would be like in there with Stonker. How tightly they'd be squeezed in the confines of the car. Would Stonker take the Driver's seat and he'd take the floor? Or would they both share the floor, pressed up hot against each other, with nothing but a thin blanket between whitened skin and the cold steel floor.

He knew that if he stayed, there wouldn't be much sleep to be had.

Suddenly, Morsov realized that all these days as a Lancer and he had never been inside a car with another War Boy. Not even that Flamer from Gastown during the last War Games had shown him the inside of a car; that War Boy had wanted a drink of water more so than companionship.

And now that he was a Half-life Noble, he knew this was something he could never have.

It was hard to say what he had to say, but Morsov knew that he had to do it; he couldn't face the questions of his crewmates the next morning. The scandal it could cause. Maybe if he had still been a Lancer, he could have said yes, but now he had his position to consider. He had responsibilities, not to just himself but to his crewmates, to his Imperator.

He tried imagining what Furiosa would have to say, hearing that he had spent the night out on a car with another Driver, and could only imagine her shock, her disappointment and disapproval.

It was then that Morsov knew he couldn't accept. That it was no longer a matter of what he wanted, but where his loyalties lay, his obligation to his rank.

“Good night, Stonker.” Quickly, before Stonker could say anything, Morsov walked away from the shop without looking back, because he knew that if he did, he would not return to his nest that night.

*****

Full dark. Stars pierced the veil of the night sky but left little light despite their fragile glow.

“Moonset,” Acosta whispered. “Shutter the lamp, Alex.”

“Sure.” Ace turned down the flame of the lantern. “Alonso. Get settled first, all right? You got your blanket? I'll take the Driver's seat, and then you can stretch out and sleep.”

“No, the doors are locked already. Don't worry about the Driver's seat, just shutter the lamp and come here.”

“With you?” Ace paused, hesitating.

“With me.”

*****

“When the storm is over...” Coil began, but Win's hand pressed lightly to his lips, stopping him mid-sentence.

“Don't fret about the future.” Win kissed Coil's forehead. “Just close your eyes and try to sleep.”

“I don't know if I can. It's cold, and I can hear the wind blowing...”

“Then come here, you big lug. Come, I'll cover your ears.”

Coil's head rested against his Driver's chest. “Win. Win...I can hear your heart.” 

“Then focus on that. Close your eyes, love.”

Restlessly, Coil's hand traced over the smooth plane of Win's chest, and his fingers brushed over a nipple creased with white.

“Crew, are you asking me for another lap around the track?”

“No, too tired. I just wanted...that is, you feel good, that's all.”

“Shush now.” Win's hand closed over Coil's exposed ear, the warmth of his palm making Coil realize just how cold his earlobes were. 

As Coil closed his eyes, he could hear Win's voice singing softly to himself, the light tenor of his clear voice resonating through his chest and suddenly it seemed that the sound of the howling storm disappeared entirely.

“I grew up on the side of Clinch Mountain...” 

*****

Morsov wrapped the blanket around his shoulders as he leaned back against the cold metal of the Lancer's basket, tucked between the toolbox and the extra fuel tank. 

As the moon set and full darkness fell across the land, a heavy cloth drawn over the breadth of the sky, the stars burned fiercely and Morsov hugged himself.

There were no tears for this kind of loneliness, there never had been. Just an aching emptiness as the wind stirred around him, the breath of the waste cold and thirsty for every exhaled breath. 

Their first run together to Bartertown as a paired crew. He was still sore from that first night, but it wasn't a pain he couldn't live with. 

Through the unglassed windows of the car, he could hear Elvis snoring, and he wondered what it was like to sleep in the cab together the way other crews did at moonset. The way best mates did. Wistful, he imagined what it would be like to have the warmth of another person beside him, their arm slung around him or perhaps his arm slung around them. The tender intimacy he imagined existed within the confines of the cab, warm and secure against the wind. The faint press of lips against a bared shoulder, the soft breath of a sleeping crewmate and the little sleepy sounds they might make, exhausted from the long run.

But that seemed like a childish need, the kind of thing that only a pup would want.

Morsov flexed and felt at the firm muscle of his arm. A War Boy shouldn't need anything like that.

He pulled the edge of the blanket over his head as the wind kicked up; only a few hours before they were back on the road.

Morsov closed his eyes.

*****

After supper, Slit waited for Nux in the War Rig shop, justifying his presence by helping the rest of the escort wipe off the War Rig in preparation for the run. Though they always cleaned it after runs, fighting off the natural accumulation of dust from the wind that seeped in through the central shop was an ongoing battle, and it took two full evenings to prepare the rig before it could be properly presented before the Immortan Joe.

He lingered in the shop once the rest of the escort headed off to their nests to sleep, waiting for Nux, busying himself with little, trivial jobs to pass the time. Eventually even the Imperator and the Half-life Nobles retired, leaving the shop empty, the majority of the great lights dimmed.

Finally, he couldn't wait anymore.

Slit banged the chassis twice. “Nux.” 

A long pause, and then Nux's voice rose up muffled through the convoluted works of the engine. “Just a moment.”

Again, Slit waited, and when time ticked away, he finally banged the chassis twice again.

“What?” Nux slid out from beneath the engine, rubbing at his eyes with grease-blackened hands. His black-smudged face seemed to be taking on a certain hollowness from hunger and exhaustion, but there was a brightness to his eyes that was unmistakable; Slit had seen that look before, when Nux talked about the car of his dreams, or when someone brought an unusual problem to Nux that could not be solved by conventional means. “Oh, it's you. What do you want?”

As he was about to speak, Slit felt the tight scar tissue of his mouth pull at the flesh of his face, and the words he meant to say, the words that had festered in his mouth all day suddenly disappeared, slipped out from beneath his tongue.

“I'm busy, Slit,” Nux said irritably, annoyed at being interrupted.

“It's late.” 

“I'm almost done for the night.”

“Nux...”

“Go to bed, Lancer. We'll talk in the morning.” Nux gave the creeper a practiced kick and disappeared once more beneath the War Rig.

“Tomorrow you have to tune the transmission, Nux.”

“It's been tuned.”

“Not the War Rig, I mean your car. Our car.” 

“Oh, that won't take any time at all, especially if everything's been maintenanced like I asked. Everything has been, right? Filter, fluids changed, etcetera?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I'll worry about it tomorrow,” Nux's voice came distant, the vast working of the War Rig a great barrier of steel between them. 

“We're leaving the day after tomorrow.”

“I know, I have plenty of time. Stop fussing and go to bed! We'll talk in the morning.”

Before he could punch his metal-limned fist into the War Rig, Slit stalked out of the shop, trying to pretend that he wasn't running.

“You say that...” Slit snarled to himself under his breath, hating the sound of his own voice but he knew that even if Nux could hear, he wouldn't.

 

In the silence of the shop, Slit looked up through wavery glass at the spill of moonlight that fell onto the hood of the car.

Tools heavy along his hips, trousers flapped open to reveal the unwhitened flesh beneath, Slit stroked himself slowly, legs and hips tensing with each squeeze, each tug of his hand and he could hear his breath hitching at the tops and bottoms of each stroke.

His loosened top belt slid down over his belly so that the edge of thick leather scraped against his wrist. 

Slit closed his eyes, lying back on the reclined Driver's seat and with his free hand briefly felt at the worn and cracking leather, remembering how it felt the first time he had been with Nux and he had gripped the seat with his hands to get better traction, to brace himself as he thrust against Nux, Nux's breath hot against his skin and the shocks of the car had squeaked as they moved against each other, the white smearing between them where sweat had dampened their skin.

Slit pressed his hand against his bruised cheekbone, the healing cuts on his inner thigh, trying to touch himself the way that Nux touched him, a firm yet gentle touch that seemed to sear him to the core but it was not the same. He licked his cracked and broken lip, split open during the fight at supper, tasting blood before suddenly remembering Nux's lips, and how he had licking at the ridged scars.

Slit wondered how much it must have hurt Nux to have his mouth cut open like that.

With a gasp he caught it in both hands, hips jerking as he came, breath hissing between his clenched teeth.

He brought his hands up to his mouth, licking his palms, his fingers, tasting himself.

As his breathing eased from its harsh pace, the shop returned to silence.

Slit ran his tongue along the length of his palm, his wrist, getting the last cooling drip that had cut into his white.


	7. Chapter 7

As the Blackthumbs began second inspection, the War Rig shop began to fill up with the trade goods that were to be run to Bartertown. Sack after sack of dried foodstuffs were brought in by Organics who lined the dim-lit corridors of the lower warren in a long shuffling queue to bring in the goods. Many of the stronger War Boys that carried the heaviest loads wore leather or cloth support belts that cinched their waists tight, differentiating themselves from the rank and file of Drivers and Lancers who never wore such things.

“Beans first, closest to the tanker. Grains over there. Yeah, millet and amaranth count as grains, so put that over with the other grains. Dried greens at the end, stick 'em over with the others. Dried mushrooms with the greens. Roots? Peels? Put 'em with the greens.” The Ace marked the slate with the inventory while directing the work of organizing the goods; there was a specific order to the loading that would maximize the usage of the interior and balance the weight in the tanker. Preparing the order before loading made it easier to handle. The other Half-life Nobles stood around, watching the work, learning from the Ace's example.

In came other trade products, the high-end ones, sealed with the Immortan's seal. Much of it was being slowly ferried over from the Immortan's Tower via cable, one load at a time: knitted and crocheted textiles, small jars of preserved fruit, jars of condensed Mother's Milk, tin boxes filled with sheets of fine new paper, large jars of pickled greens, carefully packaged crates of dried fruit, bottles of dark red beet syrup, tiny bottles of citrus oils and orange blossom water, and even food bars, wrapped in coarse paper and stacked in bricks. Those fine goods were placed at the very end of the line, to be loaded last, too fragile to be manhandled into the bottom shelves of the tanker.

“When are the fresh foods brought in?” Coil asked, closely monitoring the order of operations, noting the careful loading of the goods. 

“Some today, and only the hardy stuff that won't dry out too easy. Most of the real perishable stuff don't get picked til tomorrow at dawn and gets loaded just before we start sendin the backmarkers down. Water goes in then too, just before; it'll help keep the internal temperature steady. Then a quick final inspection, we close up the hatch, and then we get movin,” the Ace said, before raising his voice. “Hey, hey! You, yeah, I'm talkin to you. Put 'em potatoes in a sack! Don't want strays runnin around underfoot, gettin lost.”

The young Organic ducked his head and began to gather the loose potatoes, calling to one of his mates for help finding a proper container.

“Anyway, we pack it right the first time, don't need to do more 'n a quick peek for final inspection. Multiple eyes on while loadin to make sure we got everything balanced and packed saves us time 'n trouble. And don't forget, if we got extra and need more room, can just stack it under the War Rig, in the crawl space. Always a bit of extra storage down there, just in case. Can run slaves down there too, on the way back, though that's not ideal.” The Ace paused, mid-thought as an Organic floundered, and quickly Coil stepped forward to help wrestle an ungainly sack of sorghum to its rightful place.

“Tran, you think you can manage to keep eyes on for a few? Need a word with Coil,” The Ace said, handing Tran the slate.

“Sure, not a problem.” Tran took the chalk and slate, quickly adding new tick marks as more Organics shuffled in with produce and packages. “Hey, you there, Organic! Careful with that, you're going to drop...Dart, give him a hand!” 

The Ace drew Coil aside, away from the crowd of Organics, to a quiet corner of the shop.

“Maybe you don't know just yet, but this is gonna be a wonder of a run,” the Ace said quietly, dropping his voice.

“Not just because it's Furiosa's first?” Coil asked.

“No, not just because of our Imperator. All those days without runnin the big run, we're tryin to make up for it by runnin extra heavy, so that means we gotta fill the tanker to the brim but we still don't got enough new Drivers yet to make a full escort. Pulled a support truck and a few cars off the daily, but can't risk taking too many, that'd give the Buzzards the wrong idea if we're not runnin regular patrols. On top of that, we're gonna have to run the triangle the moon after this, and then another Bartertown run the moon after that, for to catch up on all the backlog. We owe on the Bartertown end, plus interest since since it's been more 'n 120 days since the last run. It's gonna be a mess.” The Ace shook his head. “No, it's already a mess.”

Coil's brows creased. “Why didn't they send an Imperator from the Immortan's Tower to run Bartertown while she was recuperating? They ran Gastown and Bulletfarm.”

“Well, sure, so Gastown and Bulletfarm don't starve or thirst to death. But no one up top knows the business like we do. Losin the Half-life Nobles, the Imperator Acosta...” The Ace paused to make the V8, bowing his head reverently, and a half-beat later, Coil did the same, before touching the mourning scars of his own face with his fingertips just as the Ace did himself. “Even the lowest of the Numbers don't know what to pay for what, much less the stops and the fuel-saving strategies. And sure, the Quartus ran the little runs to Gastown and Bulletfarm, but that's easy. That don't need coordinatin the Drivers and rallyin the War Boys. The little runs are just core crew; you were on it yourself. Core crew knows every rock and every bump on the Immortan's Road. Core crew knows what to do almost before the Imperator himself does and there hasn't been a lick of trouble along the Immortan's road in ages and ages, it's safe as nests. Didn't you run the little runs while she was poorly?”

“No, not without a Driver. Or a car.” Coil's mouth shut, the corners downturned as though he were tasting something bitter.

The Ace continued, not noticing Coil's silence. “So ask Tran; he was drivin wasn't he? He musta seen the Quartus do the drivin. So maybe Quartus can handle a short run with the War Rig, but you think the Quartus knows more War Boys than even the lowest of Organics?”

Coil thought about it; the Quartus had a commanding bearing, the kind of War Boy accustomed to standing so high above the ranks that he wasn't even in the line, but in a completely parallel line above the rank and file, where Immortan Joe was counted first, not the War Rig Imperator. And though the Quartus seemed familiar with Half-life Nobles such as the Ace, Coil could count the times he had seen the Quartus in the War Tower on one hand.

“Suppose not.”

“There's a respect that the War Rig Imperator has down the line, among the rank 'n file,” the Ace said, his sharp eye following the movements of the Organics as they sorted out the goods. “War Rig Imperator's a fightin Imperator, not a household War Boy like the Numbers. Sure, the Numbers train hard as anyone else, but they don't fight like we do, facin Buzzards and Bandits head-to-head. Just think about it; buncha Imperators lower than the Quartus, but only him 'n his brother got the drivin skills to run the War Rig. Quintus drives the Big Foot, but that's an automatic and besides, the weight distribution is different. Fully loaded War Rig is a different story; can't maneuver as quick as the Big Foot or even the Gigahorse for that matter. War Rig's slow and steady, and needs steady nerves to drive without flounderin.”

“How do you think she's stacking up? Compared to Acosta,” Coil asked.

The Ace crossed his arms. “Suppose...” And then he paused, sighting Furiosa in the doorway. The Ace straightened up, raising his voice. “Look lively there, War Boys, Imperator's here.” 

The work paused as War Boys in the shop set down their goods to salute the Imperator. Furiosa nodded graciously, signaling them to continue, and Coil smiled to himself a little; she was wearing the chassis support he had made cinched tight about her waist, and it seemed that she could hold herself up better with it, moving her metal hand more easily.

A murmur went up among the Organics at the sight of her, and Coil caught the words “support belt” whispered around the shop.

“Imperator's carryin heavy too,” someone said a little too loudly, pointedly, the kind of insolence that would never have been allowed in Imperator Acosta's presence. It sparked some chuckles among the War Boys and outright giggles among the War Pups.

“Gonna be an Organic, Imperator? The Organic Imperator?” Emboldened, another Organic joked, sassing the Imperator.

The Ace's eyes narrowed, and his mouth parted slightly, showing his skew-set jaw more clearly as he was ready to speak, but before he could say anything, Furiosa spoke, her clear voice ringing through the War Rig shop.

“Sorry boys. I'm riding too mechanical these days to go organic.” She held up her left hand firmly, without shaking, and moved the steel fingers one after another before lowering the arm to her side, easing it down with a movement that seemed natural, but Coil knew how much it cost her to make that practiced motion; he had seen her work it every day since the arm had been re-tuned and knew it was difficult, straining every muscle. 

The shop erupted into laughter, Organics and Mechanics alike laughing at the Imperator's joke. She paused, letting the laughter work itself out, letting it die down before gesturing for the Organics to return to work, which they did quickly and with much more liveliness than they did before she entered the shop.

“Didn't expect that.” The Ace's gray eyes were sparkling with amusement. “Suppose she's doing just fine, so far.”

*****

Inured to the thought of facing the day in the shop directing the Revheads alone again, Slit was surprised when he found Nux under the hood, his boots sticking out from beneath the car, ankles crossed, his throttle foot wiggling thoughtfully.

“You're back?” Slit couldn't help it, the words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“Oh, Slit. It's you.” With a brisk motion of his foot, Nux gave the creeper a kick and slid out from beneath the engine. “Is it shop time already? Or do you need something?”

Slit looked away. He wanted to be angry at Nux, and he was irritated at Nux's easy manner, as if Nux had never even noticed how much Slit had suffered waiting for him to return, but somehow the words evaded him. Seeing Nux back in their shop made a strange happiness bubble inside of him that Slit could not quite articulate, and somehow it won out against the resentment, even though it lingered like a bad taste in his mouth. “No. It's still early. Just wanted to say that...no. Nothing. It's nothing. Are you finally getting to the tuning?”

“Oh, that's long done,” Nux said cheerfully. “Easy. I'm just looking at the works now. The War Rig gave me some ideas on how to modify...”

“We don't have time for untested mods. Not if you want to drive tomorrow.”

Nux gave Slit a withering look. “I know that. Just thinking about the future, that's all.” His throttle foot flexed thoughtfully. “If you need me, I'll be under the hood, not to be bothered.” Nux slid beneath the car again, but his voice filtered up through the open bonnet. “Oh, almost forgot. Tell the Revheads to fill the coolant reserve and wipe off the car when they get in; I want it polished proper. And tell them that they're free for the day once they're done with that, and that we'll see them at loading and fueling tomorrow morning.”

“Sure.” Slit fidgeted, with his bracer, before finally working up the nerve to ask, even though he wasn't sure he wanted to know what the answer was. “What do you want me to do?”

“Don't leave, all right? Wait for me; we'll have a day.” 

“All right.” Slit wondered what that meant, but he did as he was asked, giving the Revheads their orders when they arrived, filling the stone chamber with chatter.

 

Slit picked at the scab over the healing cut on his lip, chewing the little crisp bits of dried, clotted blood, tasting copper and remembering pain.

Patiently, he waited outside the shop for Nux after the Revheads were gone. Most of the shops around them were busy, humming with work and the clatter of tools and machinery, punctuated by the shouts of the supervising Driver or his lead Lancer. More than one passing Revhead gave him a strange look as they passed by the empty shop. But Slit waited, leaning against the wall, thinking of the rude things he wanted to say to Nux and just when he was about to give up and leave, Nux slid out from beneath the car with a clatter.

The tip of Nux's nose was black-smudged where he had rubbed it with the back of his stained hands. Slit found his mouth moving slightly in amusement, seeing this all too typical side of Nux.

“All right.” Nux sat up, stretching. He set his hands on his knees and propelled himself up onto his feet, hanging the mechanic's creeper on its hook on the wall. Ducking briefly into the car, he dragged out one of the blankets, which he rolled up haphazardly and tucked under his arm. “You ready? Let's go.”

 

They took the long walk to the Third Tower, and Slit wondered where they were going until Nux led him down toward the lower warren, where the Wretched ran the millworks day and night in shifts, powering the water pumps and the generators. They stopped before going into the millworks themselves however, where War Boys of their rank were generally forbidden from entering, and made a turn down a passage that Slit had only run through once or twice, back when he was a War Pup.

“One of my Revheads has a terrace here around the bend of a dead-end hall; I gave him two bars to use it for the day. As long as we don't eat or step on anything, we can have the place to ourselves.”

Slit thought about it; he had seen the terraces from the War Tower, but didn't know that they belonged to anyone; anything green, he assumed belonged to the Immortan Joe.

“So don't eat anything that's not ours and don't kill anything, all right?”

“Yeah, fine.” Slit wondered what the fuss was about, until they came to the bright sun-lit opening. The opening to the terrace wasn't very tall, had either Slit or Nux wanted to step out onto it, they would have had to duck their heads to be among the green. But the low morning sun meant that light streamed in despite the height of the cavern opening and illuminated a large flat patch of stone beside the planted terrace.

They were on a low level of the tower, lower than even the upper levels of the lower warren where all the Immortan's entourage of vehicles were kept, and from here Slit could look across the way to see the millworks of the great central shop, and up at the massive steel cable that ran between the War Tower and the Immortan's Tower, the heavy iron hook carrying trade goods across with a slow, inexorable creaking.

“They're loading the War Rig, aren't they?” Nux peered out at the cable car, swinging empty back toward the Immortan's Tower.

“Obviously,” Slit said. “Why else would they be sending the car over? Giving the breeders free rides?”

Nux laughed. Tossing the blanket aside, he punched Slit playfully, and soon they sparred upon the lip of stone beside the terrace, the heat of the sun warming their skin where it filtered through the green vines that latticed the opening. Slit fended off Nux's blows easily, controlling the fight as though playing with a child; Nux was never serious about fighting. He feinted and when Nux overreached, twisted, easily knocking Nux's feet out from under him. Instead of dumping him onto his backside as he deserved, Slit caught Nux and dropped him to the ground gently. They wrestled on the ground, heedless of scratches and bruises, and Nux laughed as Slit pinned him.

“Pax, pax!” Nux laughed breathlessly, reaching back to pat Slit's shoulder. “You win. Let go!” 

Slit pressed the tiniest of kisses to the back of Nux's head, something that almost seemed like an accidental brush of skin against skin as he shifted his weight to loosen his grip on Nux's arm and leg.

“Ah ha! That was a trick to gain a few seconds to regroup for a sneak attack!” And Nux grappled Slit around the waist, drawing him down against his chest.

“Fool,” Slit muttered, embarrassed as Nux ran his hands over his head and down his back, tracing the long line of the new brands along his spine. “You know that won't work. I'd win any wrestle against you. You're lucky I'm choosing not to fight you right now.”

“Mm-hmm.” Nux looked up past Slit; between the twining leaves, the sky was blue, and perhaps it was merely a trick of the eye but juxtaposed against the green, it seemed a brighter blue than most any sky he remembered and then suddenly he recalled the golden haze of sunshine, the dusty green of plants, and Slit's hand in his as they stood, two War Pups alone on the precipice of adulthood.

“Done fighting for now?”

“Done fighting.”

“You want the blanket to lie on? I'll get it if you want it.”

“No.” Nux closed his arms around Slit's waist and closed his eyes, the hard surface of the stone beneath him and the green all around him.

 

“How did you think of this?” Slit mumbled around a mouthful of his half-bar, chewing each bite with gusto. He gestured to the terrace; they sat crosslegged, looking at the veil of green, sunning like lizards in the glowing warmth of morning light.

“Back when we were Revheads, most every Driver had us working to the wire, sometimes down to an hour before dawn on the day of departure. I always hated that. Everyone was always angry and tired, making stupid mistakes. So I decided that when I was the boss, I'd do it differently.” Nux nibbled at his half, taking little sips as he did so to wet the crumbly dried food in his mouth, letting the water warm up a little so that it was almost like a proper hot meal. He glanced over at Slit as he ate; in the bright sunlight, Slit's eyes were such a clear blue that Nux could not stop from sneaking glances, a different, intriguing blue than the green-framed sky.

“Yeah, I remember that. Not my problem if a Driver can't get their planning right.” Slit licked a crumb off his mouth, and Nux noticed a healing cut on his lip; Slit must have been fighting again.

“Right? So I thought the Revheads should have at least a half-day off before the run, since they've been working hard. And then I realized that meant we'd have time off too, so I tried to think of what we could do together...like nap all day until the afternoon meet.”

“Napping sounds good. Let's do it.” Slit licked his fingers and laid back down on the stone, the rough surface hot from the morning sun and he closed his eyes, feeling the direct heat of the sun along his whitened skin, warming up even the staples on his torso, which he touched one after another, the gentle pressure of the metal biting his flesh with steel teeth.

“Sure.” And spreading the blanket, Nux laid down, throttle foot crossed over his brake foot. Slit joined him a moment later, his questing mouth on Nux's, and Nux tasted blood and green.

*****

“You didn't tell me all that without a purpose.” Coil caught up with the Ace after the tanker loading was finally complete and the rig sealed, with less than two hours before suppertime, drawing him aside as they walked out of the shop. “There's a reason you wanted me to know all that. And not the others, because otherwise you would have said something earlier in the nest when we were gearing up for the day.” 

The Ace nodded, slowly. “Suppose that's right.” He gestured for Coil to follow, and so they walked through the warren, past the other War Boys finishing their work day. Pausing, the Ace drew them into the nearest empty shop.

“It's not a secret that it's going to be a hard run Everyone's on edge,” Coil began, but the Ace shook his head, cutting him off.

“It's more than that,” Ace said. “It's a first run, there's bound to be problems--”

“Would just like to know why you're telling me of all people and not her directly,” Coil cut directly to the point. "Is it because she and I were crewmates? Because we're close?”

“Yes, yes and no.” The Ace crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “Part of it's because she'll need you to keep her on task, to keep her close. Make sure she gets the rest that she needs, make sure she's eatin and drinkin proper. Keep her close at hand, guard her side. Be her left hand. You she'd listen to about all those things; the rest of us, I'm not so sure. And the other? Wanted to tell you that you should stand second after me.”

Coil's eyebrows shot up. “Me? Nothing against your judgment, Ace, but why me of all people? Shouldn't it be Tran? After all, he has more experience driving heavy vehicles like the half-rig.”

“Crew lead always needs a second, in case he falls or is killed,” the Ace said levelly. “She gave me open orders to pick who I like, and I'm pickin you. So you'll stand lead in case somethin happens to me.”

“Ace...”

“Orders from up top are to make sure this run is complete,” the Ace said firmly, meeting Coil's eye. “We gotta do whatever it takes to make sure we make it to Bartertown and back with the goods. You understand what that means?”

“Yes, of course. Wouldn't imagine doing it any other way...” Coil replied, brows creased thoughtfully. 

“Whatever it takes. Remember that, Coil. Need you to do whatever it takes.”

“Sure, of course. That's a given, isn't it? Suppose I'll go tell her. See you at the afternoon meet then?”

“Yeah, see you then.”

 

Coil found her at her exercises; she did many, in the privacy of the nest, as often as she could, to stay limber and to strengthen her chassis. Furiosa noticed him when he came in, but said nothing, her breathing sharp as she raised herself yet again on her forearms into a plank, holding the stance for as long as she could bear before she fell back to the sand-strewn ground with a sigh.

Without meaning to, her eyes wandered to her hand, hung up on the wall where the Ace had hammered in a sturdy spike. It didn't escape his notice.

“Thought I'd find you here,” he said, with forced cheer. “I have some interesting news, Fury. Seems that Ace wants me to stand second.”

“Oh? So he finally told you.” Furiosa stood up, dusting off.

“You knew,” Coil's lips pursed in a smile. “Of course you would; he would have had to run it by you. He only said you let him choose.”

“He suggested it. Perhaps he wanted it to be a surprise.” Furiosa's eyes studied Coil. “What do you think?”

“I'm honored, Driver. And pleased to be able to help you, in any way.” Reaching to her, he offered her his arm, and they embraced.

“I didn't know if you would accept. You have enough work as it is, without taking on more.” Furiosa leaned against him, and he drew her close, her head tucked beneath his chin. She, who was tall and strong, a War Boy for true, felt oddly fragile in his arms.

“Of course I would accept. You're important to me,” he said softly, words that were meant only for her and no one else.

“Sometimes I think everything's just a mess. And has been a mess for a long time,” she said suddenly, changing the topic. “An...and that the one who should be Imperator is Ace. I don't deserve--”

“No, no. Don't say that. You deserve it, you must know it to be true. You deserve to be here, an Imperator. After all, you were raised by the Immortan himself--”

“Don't say it. Please.” He could feel her trembling, and then she drew away. 

“All right. But...” Coil sighed. “Consider the practicality. The Ace couldn't be Imperator anyhow; he's half-life. Only full-lives make Imperator, you know that.”

“That's because he doesn't want to see imperfection around him. Everything around him has to be orderly, neat. Tidy. No sickness, no improper speech, only the most correct of language.” She looked at her missing hand. “No injury. No weakness. Everything perfect.”

Surprised, Coil fell briefly silent. This was the most she had ever spoken of the Immortan. Whatever life she had lived before she came to the War Tower, was something he knew little of, barely even the barest outlines, as though she had sprung forth fully formed into their world with no past of her own, though some of it he could guess at from piecing together what little he knew. 

“Come now, Furiosa, that can't be possible.” Coil smiled, trying to draw her out of her dark thoughts. “No one is perfect, but for the Immorta.”

“No, I suppose not.” 

*****

The easiest time to gather everyone was during the little bit of free time before suppertime, when the shops closed and crews finished the work of the day. They gathered in the Lancer's workshop, one of the biggest rooms in the upper part of the lower warren. Slit and Nux pitched in; they helped move aside some of the training gear, so there would be more standing space, the mockup top-walk set on risers, and some loose metal poles that had not been recharged yet with explosives.

Soon enough, the other Drivers and Lancers of the escort began filtering in. Here, a grizzled Moto-Lancer, the only smooth, unscarred and unpitted part of his face was where it was covered by his goggles and his dustwrap; even the skin of his torso marred by cuts from rocks and stinging sand. There, a support truck Driver with his crew of gossiping young Lancers, gathering them close and calling them to order. Behind them, a Flamer leaning against the wall, a specialist Lancer who today was not wearing all of his protective cover; on the road, he'd be dressed to the teeth, to shield his body from the heat of the flames, but today he wore the white like any other War Boy, the skin of his body smooth and unblemished but for the spattered scars of past burns on his forearms and face. His second stood beside him, a young assistant Lancer who leaned against the wall beside him, trying to emulate the casual disinterest of his elder.

Nux met Slit's eyes and saw that even Slit was excited, tense, his fingers twitching involuntarily with nervous energy as they sat and waited for the Imperator to arrive. For himself, he wondered how Slit could still be so full of nervous energy; he himself was languid with pleasure, not drowsy but calm, sated, and it was a good feeling that he clung to, even as the others filed in, filling the benches and lining the walls.

Acosta liked to keep them waiting, or so Nux had heard, and liked giving long speeches to the escort, exhorting them to greatness. Furiosa however was already turning out to be different; she was there almost at the time the meet had been scheduled for and Nux was surprised when she entered, preceded by her crew of Half-life Nobles.

Morsov was last through the doorway, and Nux tried to catch his eye, but Morsov's gaze was fixed on the Imperator.

The Ace called for attention, his voice loud and harsh, and quickly, the room fell into silence as War Boys ducked their heads, saluting her as was proper with the V8.

As he folded his hands together, Nux found himself suddenly more alert. Shifting, he sat up straighter.

Furiosa stepped forward, her Half-life Nobles moving aside so that they flanked her, and she spoke, her voice clear and steady. Her eyes were sharp with determination, and she looked about the room slowly as she spoke:

“Tomorrow we ride the Fury Road.”

A sudden outburst of cheering, some of the younger Lancers nearby had leapt to their feet with a clamor of cheering. Keeping quiet, almost as though jaded senior crew themselves, Nux and Slit exchanged a look of excitement.

Furiosa gestured for quiet, a small, bare motion of her fingers, and the room fell into silence once more, so quiet that Nux could hear the whirring of the tiny motors in Furiosa's mechanical hand. Nux couldn't help but stare at that hand; the third digit moved smoothly, flexing thoughtfully as she spoke, and Nux was pleased; it didn't seem as though the actuators were hitching and seizing up as they were during the penultimate fitting.

“Tomorrow,” she continued, glancing between the rows of seated and standing War Boys, some crouched on the floor, “We ride east along the great trade migration path. As many of you know from experience, the way is dangerous and there are no guarantees of survival or success. But we War Boys persevere, no matter what, and we will succeed.”

A murmur of agreement; even seasoned veterans of the Fury Road muttered their approval, heads bobbing.

Furiosa gestured to the Ace, and stepped back to watch as he announced the driving assignments.

“Odds,” The Ace spoke, and Nux could not help but feel a frisson of excitement, praying to the Immorta for an odd numbered assignment. “Number 1, Booster and Habib. Number 3, Stonker and Bucket. Number 5, Shar.”

Nux sat still, very still, listening with bated breath for his name, his Lancer's name. He reached over to Slit's fidgeting fingers, closing his hand over Slit's hands, stilling Slit's movement.

“7, Hundy and crew. Number 9, Nux and Slit. Number 11, Dent and Nando. Number 13...”

Slit's hands gripped Nux's hand reflexively, painfully; they had not only drawn an odd number, which meant that they'd be driving on the coveted Imperator's side, ninth meant that they would be just behind the War Rig, putting them on the War Rig's permanent escort instead of the augmented escort of the vehicles beyond the first ten. It was the highest-ranked spot they could have hoped to achieve on their first run, and it meant that they'd have a place even on the regular little runs to Gastown and the Bulletfarm.

If they weren't surrounded by the entirety of the escort, Nux thought, he'd kiss Slit and maybe even the Ace too. 

As it was, it seemed a lifetime of waiting to get through the evens and the half-rig, but finally the Ace finished the assignments. As he stood back, Furiosa stepped forward and spoke, pitching her voice to fill the room.

“At sunrise we'll begin final loading and vehicle inspection. Reverse order for the lifts, starting with Number 18 and ending with the War Rig. Fueling will be completed on the ground. Leading from the rear, fan out along the Immortan's Road heading north before the War Rig and reverse the order once we're on the road. Any questions regarding assignments can be directed to the crew lead.” 

“Ave Imperator!” Someone shouted, and a chanting of the V8 began, War Boys saluting her with folded fingers.

Furiosa gestured for silence, and the room fell still.

“One more thing.” Her mouth worked, a tiny gesture of tight jaw muscles, a pinched and uncomfortable look, and Nux wondered what it was that troubled her, perhaps a hurt tooth? But then she spoke, and he could not begin to guess what could have been the problem. “Customary bedding down in the Half-life Nobles' nest tonight and after the run. Make certain you have all that you need for the run.”

“Gear inspection after supper,” the Ace added, and Furiosa nodded. Without another word, she turned to leave, her Half-life Nobles following her out, leaving only the Ace behind.

Immediately, the Ace was surrounded by War Boys asking questions, but he waved them off. 

“Already know most of you are new to this, so I'm gonna show you how it works. Slit, Nux, get me a slate.” 

Quickly, they got to their feet and dug out a slate from storage; the Lancer's workshop had a few very large pieces that were often used for this purpose, flat smooth stones set in metal frames for ease of use.

The Ace gestured for the escort to move out of the way, and the two War Boys carefully lowered it to the ground. 

“Drivers, forward. Rest of you lot stay 'n listen.” The Ace knelt and began to draw, marking the slate with shapes to represent the War Rig and the half-rig, encircling it with the numbers that represented the escort vehicles. The drivers of the escort crowded shoulder to shoulder around the slate, crouching or kneeling, eyeing each other with the calculating look of War Boys who knew who their competitors were. Their Lancers peered over their shoulders, though the more experienced ones stood back, watching the proceedings from a distance with an ironic eye, bemused by the lesson.

“War Rig rides center, towing the fuel pod. That's fuel for the run, with a bit extra for trading.” Ace tapped the slate with his chalk. “Support trucks and all vehicles will carry extra fuel, but the War Rig tows the bulk of it. Now here, this is the half-rig. Half-rig follows the War Rig.”

“Why's that?” Some naive War Boy asked, and even Nux felt his lips quirk; here he thought everyone knew what the half-rig was for, but then again, it was likely that particular War Boy had never made it as high as Blackthumb and never had to calculate torque and towing capacity.

“In case the War Rig Breaks down. That happens, we swap the half-rig for the War Rig, and the half-rig hauls the goods home. Some of us'll stay to fix the War Rig, but most of the escort'll make sure the goods get home. Hasn't happened in a long time, but anything's possible on the Fury Road.”

“What if both rigs break down?” A Lancer piped up out of the crowd of War Boys.

“Ain't never happened,” a grizzled Moto-Lancer replied.

The Ace nodded to himself as though remembering something. “Maybe not, but anything's possible. That happens, we'll send a pursuit car or two back for the hauler, and the rest'll stay and protect the goods. We'll circle the wagons and pray to the Immorta that we get backup and soon to get out alive.”

Uncomfortable laughter murmured through the crowd.

“All right. Pursuit cars lead from positions 1 and 2. 1 leads the odds, 2 leads the evens. They keep an eye out for traps, and always got an eye on for the Imperator's direction. Hardest jobs for the Lancers; no nappin up top. War Rig leads, always. If the War Rig turns, everyone turns. Got that? That means everyone; we move as one when we're out on the waste. 3 through 8 countin by odds 'n evens, that goes single-lancer car, motorcycle, support truck in that order along the flanks. 3 'n 4 got the second most important job after the frontrunners, keepin the Imperator in his cab safe. If you gotta take a bullet for the Imperator, you do it, no question, even if it means you bust your ride or your life. 5 through 8, you support 3 'n 4; if they go down, you step in. But if things are already ugly, don't wait that long, jump in and give 'em road warriors the business. 9 'n 10 link the two rigs, bein the tail of the War Rig and the head of the half-rig. They got some messy business too, keepin Bandits off the tanker. 9, 10, you two make sure that nothin and no one gets the smart idea of attackin that tanker. It goes, we might all go with it, understand?”

“Yes, Ace.”

“Sure thing, Ace.”

“Good.” The Ace shifted, switching hands to draw. “11 and 12, you protect the half-rig driver. Treat 'em like you're escortin the Imperator. 9 through 12. You got double duty; you keep anyone from cuttin between the rigs. We stay together as one, got it? The rest, through 16, odds and evens, same as 5 through 8, flanking the half-rig. 15 and 16 are support trucks followin at the back of the escort, followin the half-rig.”

“Isn't 16 the waste truck?” Someone asked, sneeringly.

“Don't laugh, War Boy. Waste's valuable in Bartertown. They got a methane farm that's been runnin for ages beyond memory and they buy at a premium. We'd ship more out to 'em if we weren't usin it for our own farms,” the Ace replied. “So you make sure you use that waste truck, got it? Wasteland don't pay us nothin for our leavins. And haulin waste ain't a thing to be ashamed of, not when the crew gets a portion of the profit.”

“Just like everyone else.”

“Yeah, but waste makes a lot more 'n you'd think. All right. Anymore questions? No? Good.” The Ace eased himself back up onto his feet, dusting the chalk off his hands. “Get supper, and meet at the nest before beddin down. Make sure to fill up on coolant tonight.”

 

“A little leaner than usual but pretty much the same setup. Good to see nothing's changed.”

“Right? Good to see the new Imperator's pickin up where the Witnessed left off. Was afraid it'd be a right mess, but you can always count on the Ace to make sure things are the way they are.”

“Hear that, crew? Told ya we should have filled the coolant tank already.”

“Sorry, boss! Will go right now. Come on, mate, let's get moving!”

“Gonna be so chrome, killin all those Bandits.”

“Better to outrun 'em than fight 'em, if you ask me. Course no one listens to me...”

“Dolt, you best pray we don't run into no one out there!”

*****

“Furiosa.”

“Hmm?” Furiosa looked up from her bowl of food, having one last bite before she set it aside. Her thoughts were a blur of what to do with the escort; she had slept in the Half-life Noble nest in the past as a Lancer, then as a Driver, but somehow it seemed different now that it was her nest. Where she lived and was not merely a visitor. 

She frowned, thinking of the War Boys that necessarily would be sleeping in there tonight. Did she know all of them? Were they all War Boys she had worked with before in the past?

“...and this is a lot less than usual,” Coil continued. Furiosa blinked, having lost the thread of the conversation.

“A lot less what?”

“Food. A lot less food. You should eat more,” he said gesturing to her bowl. “Maybe your wounds are closed, but you have to build your strength."

“I'm done for now. Do me a favor, Coil, and call over the assistant trainer?”

“Of course.” Coil stood and made the walk over to the other side of the mess hall, returning with the heavyset Rose.

“Something you need, Imperator?” Rose asked politely, her hands raised deferentially in the V8.

“Yes. Take this to the children,” Furiosa said, handing her the bowl.

“Imperator!” Coil interjected, but she gave him a look, daring him to contradict her before the other War Boys. He closed his mouth, shaking his head fractionally to show his displeasure, but she ignored him.

“Split it among them evenly,” Furiosa continued, directing Rose. “Growing children should get plenty of food.”

“Yes, Imperator.”

*****

“Goggles, dustwrap, tools,” Morsov said. It was mechanical now; he had said it so many times that the words felt as though they had lost their meaning. Morsov glanced at the War Boy's gear and nodded, gesturing them into the nest. “Goggles, dustwrap...oh.”

Stonker grinned. “Looks like I'm last. At least I'm not late. Did you want a more thorough inspection? Make sure I brought everything?”

Morsov felt himself go hot. He had forgotten that Stonker was on the escort, and that the escort would be sleeping in the same quarters tonight, so that everyone would be in place and ready to go the next morning. Embarrassed, he felt the words flee from his mouth, all meaning lost. “N-no, this is fine, the dustwrap and tools and. And...”

“Goggles.” Stonker tapped the top of his head, where he wore his wide-rimmed goggles with an almost jaunty tilt. “I've got everything ready to go.” He leaned in, murmuring in Morsov's ear. “I hope you'll inspect my engine too.”

“T-that's done by someone higher in the ranks. That's above my standing.” Flustered, Morsov backed up into the nest. “Must report to the Imperator...go find a place for your sleeping, Driver.”

“Certainly. See you soon.”

Wondering what that meant, Morsov waded through the crowd of War Boys settling down in the nest to report to Furiosa.

 

There was by custom a polite distance set around the Imperator; no one who was not on the Imperator's immediate crew slept within arm's reach, and even then the Imperator's crew stayed between the other War Boys and the Imperator, an impenetrable barrier.

That knowledge didn't make Furiosa feel that much better, even though she chided herself; having slept as a member of the escort in the same nest, she had much less protection then and managed just fine.

What was different, she wondered? And then she thought about her missing hand. One less fist to fight with, one more way someone could get the better of her in a fight.

She frowned to herself. All someone had to do was pin her right hand, and--

“Sorry,” Morsov said, ducking his head. “Sorry to interrupt, Imperator, but the inspection's done.”

“Thank you, Morsov.” But he didn't go immediately; he lingered, as if waiting for more orders. “Anything else?'

“Just wondering if there's anything you need...that is...um.” Morsov seemed to shrink upon himself, embarrassed. “If you want me to do anything.”

“No, that's it.” Furiosa said. “Find a place before all the other Drivers and Lancers fill up the good spots.”

“Oh, okay. Sure.” Morsov paused, but then Coil came and Morsov beat a hasty retreat.

“Everything settled?” Coil asked.

“Sure.” 

“Then I'll call for lights out. Good night, Furiosa.”

“Good night.”

 

Morsov found a place quickly, just as the call for lights out. He sat down thoughtlessly, not really caring where he slept as long as it was somewhere where he could see Furiosa, who was stretching her arms, before settling down, the Ace by her side. 

The electricals were turned off with a clank that echoed through the room.

Yawns, sniffles, coughs and throats being cleared; the sound of shuffling, of slithering sand and the faint clank of tools as War Boys all around settled into sleep. Already Morsov could hear some quiet snoring; the day before a big run like this was always a busy shop day, and he had seen War Boys working hard all day, making sure their cars would be roadworthy tomorrow.

Morsov wiggled his toes, and dug his bare feet into the sand to keep them warm. He crossed his arms over his chest, getting himself settled, flattening the sand beneath him.

Shifting restlessly, he turned onto his side, so that he could sleep with his head pillowed in his arm. As he did so, he bumped into someone.

“Sorry,” Morsov said softly, not wanting to disturb the others.

“Not at all,” a familiar voice spoke, and Morsov could feel his heart leap into his throat.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim room, lit by bright moonlight that came in through the air shafts, he found himself face to face with Stonker.

“Fancy meeting you here, Half-life Noble,” Stonker whispered, and clasped his hand, giving it a squeeze.

Speechless, Morsov merely stared, and looking past Stonker, made eye contact with Stonker's young Lancer, a lanky War Boy who was leaning up on his elbow, watching with amusement.

Bucket gave him a wink, and then gave Stonker a shove, pushing him into Morsov.

Muffled laughter as they tumbled together in the sand. It took a moment for Morsov to realize he didn't care to untangle himself from Stonker.

Stonker stole a kiss, a sweet, polite touch of lips that left Morsov wanting more, the sip that wetted the mouth but didn't quench the thirst.

“Good night, Half-life Noble,” Stonker whispered, settling down by Morsov's side, draping his arm over Morsov's waist, a motion that seemed almost accidental, and soon he was asleep.

Morsov stared at the darkness of the ceiling, and as the wind crept in through the airshafts, stirring the sand with a quiet rasp, he felt himself moving closer to Stonker, closing his arms around Stonker's arm. Stonker was warm, almost hot to the touch.

He drew Stonker's hand up, pressing his lips to the sleeping War Boy's knuckles.

*****

“Number 10 on the lift! Set brakes! Going down!” The Lift Imperator shouted, his voice echoing through the central shop as he gestured to the Revheads who rolled the car forward. “9, get ready to go!” 

“That's us,” Nux said to Slit, excited. Quickly, he climbed into the driver's seat, slamming the door behind him. A moment later, the car gave a little bounce as Slit stepped onto the lancer's perch, and he glanced back briefly, meeting Nux's eyes.

Nux put on his driving goggles and pulled up the dustwrap over his nose, wondering why Slit didn't do the same.

At the signal from the Revhead, he released the handbrake, and depressed the brake pedal with his left, lightly stroking the bottom of his right boot caressingly over the throttle, eager to be on the road.

He sighed, the anticipation was killing him.

The wait felt long, nearly unbearable. Nux found his hand touching the fertility face, his thumb rubbing absently over the round cheek, hard and durable.

“Number 9 on the lift!” The Lift Imperator finally shouted.

Excited, Nux quickly lifted his foot off the brake pedal so that the Revheads could roll it forward onto the lift. 

Immediately he realized how high up they were, and the moment he was positioned, he found himself simultaneously pulling the handbrake and depressing the brake with his foot. The edge of fear made everything more exhilarating and Nux laughed as adrenaline coursed through his body, a sweeter bliss than even the nitrous.

The Immortan's Road stretched out wide below him, lovingly awaiting his car.

“Set the brakes! Going down! Number 8, get ready to go!”

With a jerk, the lift rattled downward and Nux's eyes widened with excitement, his hands gripping the wheel tight.

*****

“Make sure to hang on,” the Ace said to Morsov. “This ain't like goin down with a pursuit car; there ain't as much room on the lift to stand.”

“Rule of three,” Morsov said seriously, holding onto the tanker just ahead of the Ace on the Imperator's side. 

The Ace nodded his approval. “Go with Dart and Tran to help push the fuel pod once we get down and I'll make sure it's connected. Revheads'll give you a hand too, they should be finished fueling by now.”

“Yes, Ace.” The lift began moving down, and Morsov closed his hands tight on the frame of the tanker, the metal biting through his gloves and he could hear the gentle sloshing of water within the tank. His eyes wandered over to the escort, and he saw Stonker's car shining chrome, lined up along the Immortan's Road.

Early before dawn they had woken together in the nest and gone to wash up together. For a brief moment, they had even been side by side in the mess hall, until Morsov found his place at near the head of the line and Stonker stood just a few War Boys back with the Drivers. It was strangely comfortable, intimate, as if they had always worked side by side, and Morsov wondered if this was what having a best mate was like.

“Looking for someone?” The Ace asked, and when Morsov felt himself tense, he knew that there was nothing he could hide from the Ace.

“Just a friend,” Morsov replied, guiltily, not daring to look back at the Ace to meet his eyes. “Look, Nux and Slit are already lined up.”

The Ace paused for a long moment, and then he reached out to pat Morsov's shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “Loosen up, you're wastin energy being all tensed up like this. Remember, you don't need a hundred percent to hang onto any ride, unless you're about to fall off.”

Morsov nodded and sighed as the lift slowly eased down to the ground, shaking him to his core.

*****

Furiosa paced the metal platform of the central shop, her rattling footsteps clanking counter to the beat of the pounding drums as they set a steady pace for the Treadmill Rats. An important day such as this called for the Immortan's own drummers, who had come over yawning from the Immortan's Tower in the hour before dawn to set the pace of work.

Down below in the chasm of the great crack that ran through the heart of the War Tower, she could hear the echoing shouts of the Revheads as they ran the long fuel line down the string of cars, filling up each vehicle and its reserves to the brim. No car held more than a gallon or two of guzzoline while in shop; more and it would be a fire hazard, either in shop or moving up and down the lifts. The Ace had some bloodcurdling tales of accidents in days past, and she had seen it herself, those abandoned shops whose walls were still shot black with smoke. It was why all shops, all corridors, and all nests were situated to have airshafts; a few early shops in the Citadel had none and when they burned, so went many War Boys with it, choked by smoke and fumes.

The cars, trucks, and motorcycles that made up the escort were lined up in reverse order in a long trail along the Immortan's Road, a steel bolt of high-octane guzzoline pointed outward toward the waste. She ran through the numbered vehicles as her eyes lingered over each one, remembering the name of the Driver and the number assigned. Furiosa frowned; the Imperator's prerogative was to inspect the vehicles of the escort, the brisk walk along the parked vehicles, but for this first run, there was a silly bit of custom where she had to come down last by herself instead of going down with the War Rig or with one of the pursuit vehicles.

She watched as Coil made the walk instead, a tiny white figure that seemed no bigger than a screw from this height.

“Imperator Furiosa,” a Lift Imperator said deferentially, catching her attention. Though he was an Imperator too, and a high-ranked one, wearing the full emblem, the War Rig Imperator was of a different rank all together. “After they hook up the tanker, we'll send you down.”

Furiosa nodded. She glanced at the masked Imperator, at his heavy muscles, his dark-tanned skin, the thick apron of leather that he wore upon his hips and the full emblem that he wore over it, and she looked at her own slender arm, her pale skin that was untouched as yet by the sun, the metal heft of the hand that hung heavy by her side, the comparatively simple leather badge hanging from her hips.

“What's your name?”

“Name's Hoggett, Imperator. Been a long time since they called me that, though.” There was a note of curiosity, of surprise in the Lift Imperator's voice, and he pushed back the visor of his helmet to reveal an older War Boy near the Ace's age, with dark brown eyes set in an honest and plain face.

“Then what are you called?”

“Hogg,” the Lift Imperator replied. “Course some people call me Art, but that's only old friends. Though...they're mostly gone now.”

Before she could say another word, the main lift went down with the tanker. There was a hushed silence as it was lowered, the last and most valuable part, as well as the most dangerous part of the work; any mistake they had made in balancing the load would mean the death of everyone aboard the lift and the loss of thousands of hours of labor. From here, the Ace had his back to her, standing with one hand holding onto the tanker and Furiosa said a silent prayer under her breath as he and the others were lowered down.

Hogg made the aversion sign, against going under the wheels.

Both Imperator peered over the edge to watch the lowering, and when it was done, the fuel pod was pushed out from its fortified storage place within the deep crevasse, to be connected to the tanker.

“Thank you for the hard work, Hogg,” Furiosa said, relieved. “We couldn't do this without everyone's hard work, including yours.”

“Thank you, Imperator,” Hogg said, touching his hand to his helmet in an ancient gesture of politeness, before remembering to close the visor with a clank. He gestured for her to get on the lift. “You ready?”

“Yes. I'm ready.” Furiosa stepped onto the empty car lift, standing tall at the center of the platform of steel, chains clanking around her as she was lowered to the approving roar of the crowd, the Immortan's great, booming voice proclaiming her before all the world:

Imperator Furiosa!


	8. Chapter 8

Past midnight, the escort growled to a stop on a low ridge overlooking the waste, the bright moon hanging precariously on the horizon, leaving them less than an hour of light.

Nux idled briefly to listen to the sound of his own engine. His eyes ran over the faint phosphorescent glow of the dials. Everything was in order under the dust-smeared hood; the tune the engine sang was perfectly at the right pitch. He pitied his fellow Drivers and Lancers, watching them tumble wearily out of their cars to check under the hood, to tighten rattling parts or patch repairs that had been poorly applied in the first place. Nux smiled to himself, content in knowing that his machine was meticulously maintained.

Not waiting for the dust to settle before getting out, Nux stretched, gritty clouds swirling around his boots, and he shook his hands and arms out, sore from the long drive. He had never driven so long nor so far before, and he yawned, tired.

He dug out the lantern and lit it, setting it on top of his car, carefully adjusting the flame and shuttering it so that it did not give off too much light, as was the custom of the road.

Hearing boots crunching through gravel, Nux turned to see Slit coming toward him. Between silver moonlight and golden lamplight, Nux could tell that like most of the other Lancers, Slit was streaked ochre from the dust, but for Slit's eyes, mouth and nose, where it had been covered by goggles and a thin black dust wrap.

“Time to refuel, Lancer.” Nux couldn't help but smile; this was his drive and his Lancer, and being able to say it aloud made him feel giddy with joy; finally, this was happening, he was driving to Bartertown as part of the War Rig's escort.

“On it.” Slit fetched the empty fuel canisters, handing one over to Nux. 

“Here, I can do it.” Nux took the other canister from Slit. “Why don't you go eat first? Need to stretch my legs and visit the waste truck.”

“Sure.”

 

When he returned with the fuel, Slit had moved the lantern and opened the bonnet to heat up tin cups of water on the engine. Curious, Nux wondered what it was that Slit was doing, smelling something good that made his stomach growl. But instead of immediately going over to look, Nux refilled the fuel tank first, and then secured the empty canisters to the lancer's basket.

“Almost done,” Slit said.

“What're you making?” Nux asked, standing to Slit's left as Slit crushed a food bar in his clean shop cloth.

“Supper.” Slit carefully emptied the crumbled contents of the cloth into the steaming cup and handed it over to Nux.

“Smells good. Like fruit.”

“Put some orange peel in it for extra nutrition,” Slit said, as he poured himself a cup.

Nux dug into his pockets, pulling out a tarnished metal spoon with a bent and twisted handle. He breathed on it, rubbing it clean with a cloth before giving his food a stir. “Thanks. This looks good.” He took a bite, and if everything didn't have the faint taste of dust to it, he would have thought it was as good as supper back home, the wet mush hot and delicious with the hint of nuts and greens embedded within it. “Oh, that's good,” Nux sighed. “I like it with the orange peel. Tastes good.”

Slit kept his eyes studiously fixed on the cup of water heating on the engine block. “It's even better with mushrooms, but I don't have any.”

“Should have said something. I have some.” Nux dug the crumpled paper packet out of his food pocket and handed it to Slit. Slit added some shreds of dried mushrooms into his heating cup of water.

“You want some too?”

“Sure.”

Nux held out his cup as Slit sprinkled a few bits of mushrooms onto his food before closing the packet.

“Keep it, Lancer.” Nux smiled, and Slit shrugged, tucking the packet away safely. 

“You don't need to keep calling me that, Nux.” Slit said, for emphasis. “Everyone knows you're the Driver.”

“I know. I like it though. It's a cute nickname.”

“Fool.” Slit gave him a withering look and Nux laughed.

*****

The cooling engines of the War Rig ticked away merrily, but it was still hot enough for the Ace heat up steel cups of hot orange peel water, hot to almost boiling. 

Furiosa leaned against the warm frame of the War Rig, the blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders, indulging in its scratchy comfort. In the lantern-lit darkness after moonset, she watched Coil doing the same on the second engine, passing a hot cup to Tran before pouring another cup and setting it to heat. 

She yawned, tired from a long day of driving.

“Everything's in order,” the Ace said to Furiosa, as he leaned down to hand her the hot cup, using the edge of his blanket to protect his hand. He shifted the blanket, adjusting the folds draped over his broad shoulders as he straightened up. “Checked the fluid levels. Refilled what needs refilling, tightened anything loose. We're all set for the next leg. Can put the covers back on once we're done cookin. Everything internal looks fine.”

“Good.” Furiosa took a sip, her blanket-wrapped hands warming by the heat of the metal cup.

The Ace filled his own cup with water from his canteen and added shreds of dried orange peel from a small cloth pouch before setting it carefully on the hot manifold. Crouched on the broad bonnet of the War Rig, he waited for his water to heat up. 

He glanced at Furiosa, opened his mouth to say something, but paused.

“Something on your mind, Ace?”

“Just thinking about the day's drive, that's all.” The Ace pulled his cup off the engine, wrapped in his black shop cloth. Briefly handing it to Furiosa, he hopped off the War Rig, landing with a soft thud, dust stirring about his boots. Absently he tossed the edge of the blanket over his shoulder, leaving his forearms bare so that it would be easier to work.

Furiosa handed the cup back, and the Ace took a long sip, smacking his lips with pleasure. “We definitely got a new crew. Reminds me of an old run, maybe third or fourth time out to Bartertown. The Daddy turned one way and the frontrunner turned the other, and we had to send a moto after 'em, to chase 'em down. Got to be a close thing; nearly had to use a flare gun to get 'em back.”

Furiosa laughed. “That can't possibly be true!” She took a sip from her own cup, hot and aromatic, feeling the heat of the drink go all the way through her insides, warming her up.

“Oh sure, back then we didn't have Lancers. So no one to bang the roof to tell a Driver the convoy's turned. And frontrunner's got enough to look at without lookin behind. So after that...that's when they put two cars up front for these big runs. That way they can watch out for each other and still keep one eye on the convoy.”

“Seems sound, unless there's a trap,” Furiosa said. “Then we'd lose the best cars first.”

The Ace shrugged. “Small price to pay for keepin the fastest on track. Besides, traps aren't too dangerous for the cars. Usually the worst kind is when Bandits or Buzzards get some clever ideas about tryin to run us into sand, try to bog us down. You know, sometimes if we thought there'd be trouble on the Fury Road, we'd send the frontrunner out even faster, a couple klicks ahead. Then if Bandits came outta the waste to harry 'em, they'd turn back around, playin at retreat and run 'em road warriors right into the main escort. Great strategy from the old days, setting a trap like that. The Daddy had lots of ideas about that sort of thing, rest we learned from War Boys like Acosta 'n some others. You wouldn't know but the Imperators before Acosta, they got experience along these lines, fighting on the Fury Road.”

“There were Imperators before Acosta?” Furiosoa joked; she knew that there were at least two or three War Boys who had stood Imperator before Acosta, but Acosta seemed to have been the Imperator time out of mind, beyond the memory of near everyone in the warren.

“Sometimes it don't seem like it, does it?” The Ace's crooked mouth twitched with amusement. “Sometimes I forget that there were other War Boys who stood lead before Acosta. Well, those are long stories for another day. Better get some rest, Furiosa. Will make a round through the escort, make sure everything's fine.”

“All right. Make sure to take someone with you,” Furiosa said, sipping at the steaming cup cooling in her hands. 

“Of course. Morsov!” The Ace raised his voice. “You and me, let's go! We're walkin the convoy.”

“Yes, Ace!” 

*****

Morsov carried the lantern, its muted light swaying with every step as they made their way around the makeshift camp. He followed the Ace, who stopped by every vehicle for a quick word. War Boys for the most part were still eating their meals, but many were starting to get settled down for the night. He passed a grizzled Moto-Lancer already asleep under the shelter of the War Rig, wrapped up in his blanket, a fold tucked over his head and around his ears to keep warm. A Flamer and his second sat hip to hip in the bed of their ute, feeding each other bites from their dried food bars, chuckling over some joke. As he waited for the Ace to finish talking to their Driver, they finished their meal and the Flamer drew a blanket up over the muscled shoulders of his second, knotting the opposite corners together into a makeshift shirt, making sure that the War Boy's bare torso was covered and protected from the wind. The young second who must have spent the day napping, climbed up onto the cab of the truck to sit and keep watch, weapons close at hand. At the next support truck, the exhausted Driver was being tucked into the bed of the truck by two of his young Lancers, who cuddled beside him on either side as close as a pup pile. The third was standing guard beside the truck, and greeted the Ace with a hushed voice, not wanting to wake his crewmates.

Slowly, they made their way past the end of the convoy.

Thankfully they had started with the evens, Morsov thought, thankfully, because he wasn't sure he could face Stonker with the Ace by his side. He glanced down that line of vehicles with trepidation, but then the Ace kept walking away from the convoy, just far enough to be out of earshot while still being in view of the War Boys on duty.

All around them was darkness, but for the faint lights of the convoy, and the emptiness gave Morsov a shiver, hinting at the danger of the world outside.

“Morsov.” The Ace stopped, but did not turn around. “You know, when we was younger, me 'n Acosta and the others, we always liked these long runs.”

“Oh?”

“Not just cuz of the work, though the work of the road was a lot easier 'n breaking rock. But cuz it's about the only time we could stretch our legs, stretch our arms without runnin into stone.” In the golden lamplight, the Ace met his eyes, the Ace's expression frank but warm, and Morsov felt oddly shy.

“Yeah?”

“No upper Imperators around to give us the business, nothing like that. No worryin about what the Daddy thinks, what he's gonna say. Just us War Boys, out here by ourselves, in this big land that stretches all the way out into the sky and beyond.”

“Oh.” Morsov wondered what it meant and why; it was strange for the Ace to be talking like this. 

“So the things we couldn't do...not bad things, mind you, but maybe things that we ought to do only when we're alone...that was always fair game on the road. You know that, right?”

Morsov felt himself go red to his ears. He had heard all sorts of things said about being on the road and had heard some of what went on himself, when he had been a Lancer, but he hadn't known that the Ace knew about such things, much less would speak about them. Too embarrassed to answer, Morsov said nothing, ducking his head.

The Ace turned, walking back toward the convoy, albeit slowly, his boots crunching through the gritty scrim of sand overlaying rock. “You know Morsov, even Imperator Acosta had someone who weren't in his crew, someone he was real close to. You probably know who it is already, but he didn't start off a Half-life Noble, and they didn't start off together that way. Sure, Acosta was already Imperator, but that other War Boy was just a Driver when they first got close.”

“Oh.” Morsov was amazed; he had never heard of such a thing. “Really?”

“Yeah. Was an open secret, but suppose an open secret's still a secret, sure. So maybe you didn't hear bout it cuz you didn't have the right friends...not that Slit and Nux aren't right mates of yours, but that...well, it's not something that was talked about much among the younger War Boys. Something only older War Boys would be privy to, not that there are so many of us left these days. But Moki, he and Acosta...” The Ace's brow furrowed briefly, and his jaw clenched. “That went on for a long, long time, til Moki got sent to the Bulletfarm.”

“That was the day Acosta died, wasn't it?”

“Yeah. The day he was Witnessed.” Instead of signing the V8, the Ace's hands wandered over his face, and he touched his mourning scars lightly. “But I'm tellin you, Morsov, there's nothing wrong if an Imperator, a Half-life Noble, or anyone else is close to someone outside their crew. As long as you know you ain't shuntin another crew, as long as no one's gettin hurt and it don't get in the way of work, no one's gonna say nothing. It don't reflect on either of you poorly; everyone's got needs.”

“But Furiosa...” Morsov whispered, barely daring to voice his deepest concern.

“You don't gotta worry about her. She'd be happy if you're happy.”

Morsov stared. “Thought...it would be shameful. Bad for my reputation.”

“What, to be happy? To admit you got needs? To get close to someone who wants to get close to you?” The Ace stopped in his tracks, giving Morsov a wry look. “No, me and the Imperator, we're both in agreement here. And the others, they're your crewmates. They'll support you as long as it ain't foolish or dangerous.”

“Don't know if it's not foolish. Ace, I don't want to shunt a crew...”

“Morsov...” The Ace turned and set his hands on Morsov's shoulders, and Morsov suddenly realized how cold he was at the touch of the Ace's hands. Morsov's trembling fingers tightened on the lantern whose low-angled light sent strange shadows across both their faces.

“Listen, Morsov. Stonker's got a strange background for a War Boy, but he's a good lad, hard-working and loyal. Well, we all knew that he was the quiet type goin in, but you know, he and his Lancer spent the night apart after they were crewed up. They didn't even stay in the car for longer than it took to exchange some gifts, not even long enough to be decent. They just went back to their separate nests like it was no big deal. Stonker's a strange lad; ain't no one's heard of him havin anything like a best mate before, so you know, this is maybe good for both of you.”

“How...how did you know?” Without the kind of alliances and friendships well-connected War Boys had, Morsov had never heard these things before, and he wondered what the Ace meant by a strange background, though he did not dare to ask.

“A War Boy's got eyes and ears,” the Ace said with a wink. “It'd do good for both of you to have mates outside your own crews. Worth a shot, right? Bold Lancer like yourself don't need to be afraid, to hang back when the prey's run right up before your car, just waitin for your move.”

Morsov took a long breath, embarrassed to be hearing words like this from the Ace.

“Thanks, Ace.”

“Course, no problem.” The Ace gave his shoulders a firm squeeze. “Look at you, even after midnight, wanderin around with no blanket. Next time wrap up before we go round the escort, okay? C'mere, take half of mine, you're freezing...”

*****

“Look.” She pointed, but it was too late; the shooting star had already disappeared in a fierce silver streak that flashed across the distant horizon before disappearing.

“Barely a streak of chrome,” Coil said, tracing his finger along the same arc of the trajectory. “Cover your ears and nose, Driver. You're losing heat and moisture with every breath.” He wore his blanket draped around his head and shoulders, a fold tucked over his nose so that only his eyes were visible.

“You always say that,” Furiosa tugged a fold of the blanket over her head; it was warmer than she expected, or perhaps she was just colder than she realized. “You've said that for ages, whenever it gets cold like this. What good would covering a person's nose do against losing moisture? We'd be losing moisture no matter what, without anything to catch it.”

“Huh. Actually, I'm not certain,” Coil said to himself, puzzled. “Must have been something I picked up...” 

Brow furrowed, he tried to remember where he had first heard this phrase, and then suddenly he flinched, realizing that it had to have been Win, who would have worn his dustwrap over his face even inside the Citadel if it had been allowed.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” Coil sighed, setting the past aside. “Nothing. Never mind then. Come on, let's get some rest. It's getting too cold to stay out here.”

“I know.” But Furiosa stood without moving, hesitating, unsure, uncertain if she wanted to be alone with him like this, even if she had no choice. 

“Long drive tomorrow, Driver. Let's get in the War Rig and get some sleep.”

 

Coil opened the door for her and offered her his hand, but she ignored him, pulling herself up into the cab without his help. He followed, and once they were inside, Furiosa made her way to the broad bench of the back seat. She began to unfasten the belts that held her arm, carefully easing it off with a sigh.

“Do you want me to hang it up?” Coil offered.

“No, I'll keep it with me,” Furiosa said, and then frowned when she realized she still had to untie and unroll the curtain, but now with only one hand.

“Tran and Dart are up top, keeping night watch,” Coil said, his deep voice sounding hollow, echoing through the cab. “Ace and Morsov are making the rounds. We should have about a third of the escort on watch tonight, and everyone else will sleep.” Coil settled down in the Imperator's seat and glanced back to Furiosa. “Don't know when they'll be back. I suppose it's just us two for a little bit.”

“Oh. Hadn't noticed.” Furiosa glanced at him briefly, and then reached up to unroll the slatted curtain that would separate her sleeping quarters from the front seats. 

“Here.” Coil helped her untie the other end, and the weighted curtain unfurled, dropping between them with a snap. Tempting as it was to draw it aside, to talk to her a little, he knew that there was still work to be done, the work of guarding the Imperator. Besides that, he reasoned, she needed her sleep.

Coil crossed his arms, settling his blanket around himself, the cool leather of the Imperator's chair at his back. It smelled like leather, musky and organic, but there was a faint smell of her sweat to it, and he settled against the seat comfortably, imagining her sleeping at his back, the way they used to in the nest. “Will stay awake until Ace gets back to let him in. Sleep well, Driver.”

Furiosa laid down on the cushioned back seat, the blanket tight around her shoulders and tried to sleep, but no matter how she shifted, the cold of the leather seeped icy through the rough, scratchy fabric.

*****

Sharing a blanket wrapped around their shoulders, Nux and Slit waited together, their arms around each other's waists, knowing the Ace was coming around and wanting to make certain that they were still awake and alert when he came by.

Nux rested his head gently against Slit's, and Slit took his hand under the blanket, twining their fingers together.

“When we get to Bartertown,” Nux began, but then he straightened up, forcing Slit to straighten up as well if Slit wanted to stay covered by the blanket. “Ace! Morsov! How was the first day on the road?”

Sharing a blanket, the lantern swaying between them, the two walked up together, their footsteps in synchronous rhythm. 

Slit tensed, remembering that shameful talk with Morsov in the practice shop. Jaw clenched, he forced himself to make eye contact with Morsov, but then stared hard, daring Morsov to speak. 

Morsov nodded polite acknowledgment but kept his mouth shut and his expression carefully neutral, deferring to the Ace to speak. It made Slit realize that Morsov was not about to say anything, and Slit was not certain if he should be annoyed or pleased. But in truth, Slit was relieved; he didn't want Nux to know that he had dragged shop business into personal affairs.

“Fine, fine. Same as always.” The Ace gestured to Morsov, who handed him the lantern. “How's the vehicle doin? Any overheating? You need anything?” The Ace raised the lantern, giving the car a look.

“Not at all,” Nux said proudly. “Didn't even need to add much coolant; the fluid levels are staying stable.”

“Good, sounds like everything's sealed up tight under the hood. Get some sleep. We'll see you in the morning.” The Ace gestured to Morsov to follow, and they continued their walk to the next car. 

Nux drew Slit close, murmuring into his ear, his scarred lips brushing against Slit's tender earlobe. 

“Let's get some rest.”

*****

The Ace's arm was heavy around Morsov's shoulder, but Morsov barely noticed. Morsov kept kept walking, breathing deeply to stay calm, but his heart was pounding as they walked up to the support truck together, where the Ace stopped to talk to the Driver briefly about fuel. Number 7, he thought. This was vehicle number 7. Then a Moto-Lancer, who he could see was already asleep under the shelter of the War Rig. That would be number 5. They wouldn't need a word with him. Then vehicle number 3. 

Stonker's car.

The Ace's words looped and repeated in his mind, a subtle poison that wormed its way into his bones. Was it true? It had to be true; the Ace wouldn't mislead him about anything so important. 

“Oi! Morsov.” A War Boy spoke, and Morsov looked up, not recognizing the voice. It was too dark to see who the speaker was, no more than a faint smudge of white in the darkness beyond the reach of the light of the lantern. 

“Can't see you,” Morsov said, stepping away from the Ace, closer to the truck bed. Stepping out from beneath the warm blanket was a shock, his breath caught and he put his arms tight around himself, shivering.

“Bollards, lemme get the light.” There was a fumbling, and the light of the lamp revealed Bucket, Stonker's crewmate and Lancer, draped in a blanket that covered every inch of his torso and head but for his face.

“What are you doing here?” Morsov wondered.

“Oh, stayin on Hundy's truck with a mate. Driver sleeps with the first Lancer in the cab, we two stay out back.” 

“Not...staying with your Driver?”

“Nah,” Bucket shrugged. “Stonker's not that kind of a mate. Actually, we're not that kind of mates either,” Bucket gestured to the War Boy beside him with his thumb. “Me 'n Beep bunk together on the road. His Driver's only got eyes for the first, so it works out.”

“You should have shot for my crew,” Beep said, nudging Bucket. “They can do all that disgusting lovey-dovey best mate stuff on their own, and we could hang out back together and play games and tell tales.”

“Yeah, but ridin third doesn't pay as much as ridin solo.” Bucket flashed a snaggled smile of sharp teeth filed to points.

“Who's standing watch?” Morsov asked.

“Me,” Beep raised his hand. “Slept all day in the bed while the first kept eyes on so now it's my turn.”

“See, that's the problem with support trucks,” Bucket explained, “is that you gotta do watch if you're second or third. Solo Lancers get to bed down and sleep all night.”

“But you can't nap in the daytime.”

“Only if we're the frontrunner. Look at this top belt, Beep, what do you think it's for?”

“Thought it was for pleasin your best mate. Least that's what I heard tell.”

All three burst into laughter, but quickly stifled their giggles so as not to wake anyone.

“Anyway, you see Stonker, you tell 'em hi for me,” Bucket said amiably. “Gonna get some sleep now, hope next time you Half-life Nobles start with the odds so we can bunk down faster, staying awake for this is pure miserable. Only fair to make evens suffer half the time, just saying.”

“Are you sure?” Morsov asked, astounded.

“Sure about what?”

“Stonker.”

“Saying hi? Course, why not?”

“Wouldn't you...”

“Fine by me. While you're at it, make sure he's covered with a blanket. War Boy kicks off his blanket, says he's not cold, but then he's sneezing all night.” Bucket made a face. “He's like a pup that way. Just check in on him, all right?”

Morsov nodded. “Just part of the job.”

 

Morsov found the Ace waiting for him just ahead of the cab of the support truck. 

“Didn't make you wait long, hopefully. Let's finish this up,” Morsov said, feigning good cheer.

“You take 3, I'll take the frontrunner. That way we'll be done in half the time,” the Ace winked, holding up the lantern so that Morsov could see him distinctly.

“3? Are you sure?”

“Sure I'm sure.” The Ace patted his back. “And if you're of the mind to get warmed up somewhere other than on the War Rig, it'll be fine. 3's right next to the Imperator's door. Will know you're safe and sound when I pass by. But if you change your mind, wait for me before heading up top, got it?”

“Ace! What are you saying?”

“Just doin my job as crew lead. Givin you permission for somethin you wouldn't give yourself permission for,” the Ace said as he started walking toward the front cab of the War Rig. “And next time you go walkin around after moonset like this, you get a blanket first...” 

The Ace walked away, taking the lantern with him. It seemed that without the golden glow of light, the wind of the waste was colder, icier, and it shivered Morsov to his bones.

He stood there for a long moment, in the pocket of darkness between vehicles. The faint light of the stars caught his eye and he looked up. Stars beyond measure burned, flickering in the night sky, endless and enduring, and he wondered if it was true, that that was where Valhalla really was, in the rotating and ever modular night sky.

But being alone in the dark like this was dangerous, even in an armed camp surrounded by War Boys armed to the teeth, and so he stepped forward, toward the soft light of vehicle number 3's lantern.

Morsov followed the warm glow, his footsteps hesitant, and he paused, just beyond the point of visibility. Stonker was wrapped up in his blanket, leaning against the car, chafing his hands by the heat of the shuttered lantern. As Morsov watched, Stonker stifled a yawn.

Cautiously Morsov stepped forward, his boots crunching through the pebbly, sandy ground.

“Who's there?” Stonker looked up, surprised, and then Morsov took another step, into the light.

“Just me,” Morsov said sheepishly, arms tight across his chest. 

“Morsov.” Stonker's expression changed completely, brightening with joy and the light of the lantern seemed to catch in his golden eyes. “So that's what the Ace meant. Uh, you've come to do the inspection yourself?”

“Yeah. Anything...I can help you with? Anything you want me to tell Ace?” Morsov came closer, not enough to put himself in danger, but close enough to almost feel the warmth of the heat of the lantern, just out of reach.

“No, the machine is fine. But I think there's something I could help you with.” And Stonker stepped forward, opening his blanket, drawing Morsov in, wrapping Morsov in his arms.

He had not realized how cold he was; Stonker's body felt hot, so hot that for a moment, he wasn't sure of what temperature it was, if he was cold or hot, and Morsov hesitantly put his arms around Stonker.

Stonker flinched, and laughed. “Your gloves are cold.” 

“Sorry...” Morsov moved to pull away, but Stonker kissed the top of his head, holding him tight.

“No, no...it's all right. Can't help that it's cold. Why don't you come warm up with me in my car?”

Morsov paused, and a little pang of pain went through him, the past shunting the future. He said nothing but nodded, and let Stonker guide him in, the lantern swinging before them.

*****

The Ace walked to the frontrunner's car, paused to make certain that the War Boys were asleep, and began his walk back.

Carefully he ran over all the details of the work that needed to be done; number 15 needed the refueling stop to be a little earlier; it was overheating faster than anticipated and they could use some extra coolant too, so he'd have to send someone to make a whipround the next morning. The Moto-Lancers would need to meet in the morning; they had all been asleep by the time the Ace came around, which meant the walk had to be done earlier, perhaps before the Half-life Nobles took their break for supper. Number 10 had concerns about a minor transmission issue; he'd send Nux over in the morning to give it a look. 

Lost in thought, the Ace found himself back at the War Rig.

He stopped beside the cab, and glanced over at the third car. Through the dust-smeared window, he could see the outlines of two War Boys, their heads dipped toward each other as if speaking in close confidence, illuminated by the faint light of a shuttered lantern. He nodded to himself in approval.

He then looked up at the cab. It was dark inside, and he paused for a long moment, listening closely.

Silence, but for the stir of the wind upon sand and he waited a moment longer, before deciding that nothing had changed. The Ace shook his head, briefly disappointed, before shrugging it off. There would be other days, he thought, but the principle still held. A War Boy that belonged, who was tightly bound and connected to other War Boys was a safer War Boy, one who would not try to run, one who could be controlled by his relationships to his mates. One whose mates would keep him in line and out of trouble.

Where had he heard those words? And the Ace smiled faintly to himself, remembering Acosta.

He shut off the fuel line for the lantern, but it still burned, flames sputtering and flickering, the light unstable.

As he pulled himself up onto the crew lead's stoop, Coil opened the door and let him in.

“She's asleep,” Coil said softly, and he moved over onto the passenger seat to give the Ace the warmed Imperator's seat. The Ace climbed in, shutting the door softly behind him, locking it from the inside. 

The Ace blew out the lantern.

*****

“Take the passenger seat.” Stonker opened the door for him, letting him in, and Morsov carefully climbed in, reluctantly leaving the warmth of the blanket. He winced, bracing himself for the cold, but it was pleasant inside, with with what Morsov imagined was the lingering heat of the engine.

“This is nice,” Morsov said, settling back in the padded, leather-bound seat. “Isn't this a Driver's seat too?”

“Pulled it off a captured vehicle whose engine was too trashed to turn over. Some road warrior bricked it trying to outrun the daily.” Stonker climbed in and closed the door behind him, setting the lantern down on the floor beside the shift, turning down the flame. He glanced at the windows, making sure they were partially open. “Had it installed after I was paired up, replaced the crummy seat that was in here before...don't know if you know this, but it's a custom among Drivers on a single Lancer vehicle to put in a seat if we're not close to our Lancers, not like that. The smaller and more uncomfortable the seat, the further apart we are.”

“Why's that?”

“To not give anyone ideas as to how the Lancer's sleeping or not sleeping. Depends on the ride, but no seat, and two War Boys can squeeze into that flat space on the floor and...well, at least I've heard of such things,” Stonker shrugged. “Sometimes we'll bolt in one temporarily, like...if the Imperator and a Half-life Noble are going to take it out for an inspection run around the waste. That reminds me, it was the talk of the shops when Furiosa added a seat after the last War Games. A little seat.”

“Oh, I hadn't heard...”

“Driver's gossip,” Stonker said. “Seat definitely says something about the Driver's relationship with the Lancer. Though...” And Stonker reached over, taking Morsov's hand. “I suppose there are good things to having two seats.”

“O-oh? Like what?” Morsov felt unsure, letting Stonker twine their fingers together, and he wondered if he should have taken his gloves off, so that he could touch Stonker directly, skin to skin.

Stonker drew Morsov close, gesturing for him to lean forward, and Morsov did.

“It makes it easier to kiss you.”

 

Hot kisses that warmed Morsov to his toes like the hot drink after a long days drive but much sweeter. Stonker's tongue slipped into his mouth and he gripped Stonker's shoulder tight, pulling him close as Stonker cradled his head, long fingers stroking along his neck, tickling against his earlobe.

The stick shift bumped between them, stiff and awkward.

Morsov reached for Stonker's trousers, to undo the button and the zip, but Stonker pushed him back without a word, kissing him delicately, his broad, full lips worrying Morsov's lower lip.

“Don't you want...?” Morsov asked, breathless, and pulling fractionally away, Stonker shook his head. 

“Not now,” Stonker paused, and it seemed as if he was considering his words for a moment, but Morsov again reached for him and gently, Stonker pushed Morsov's hand away. 

“Stonker?”

“Not now. Gotta sleep soon,” Stonker smiled, and kissed him again in apology. “I do want you, really. Just not now.”

“Oh.” And the shock of the rejection was almost as cold as the wind of the waste, leaving Morsov sick and shivering. But Stonker seemed to intuit his feelings, and he drew Morsov close even as Morsov pulled away.

“Not now doesn't mean I don't want you.” Stonker kissed him hard. “That's a promise for more. But another time. Later. Just too tired to drive, either the car or you.”

Relief fought embarrassment, and Morsov felt himself blush hot beneath his white. Stonker took Morsov's hand, kissing his fingertips, sending little shivers of pleasure through him.

“Try to get some sleep, all right?” Stonker turned off the lamp and reclined his seat back as far as it would go. Morsov mimicked him, lying back down on the reclined seat, springy beneath his back.

“Don't know if I can,” Morsov said honestly.

Stonker held onto Morsov's hand, rubbing his cheek lightly against the flat of Morsov's gloved palm, gently so as not to rub off the white. “I could tell you a story if you like.” 

“A story...” Morsov wondered, when was the last time someone had told him a story at sleeptime? And then he remembered being small, tucked up against the curve of the Ace's back, warm and comfortable.

“A story I heard when I was a pup.” Stonker yawned, closing his eyes, his voice slow and wandering with drowsiness. “Lie back and get comfortable. Here's the blanket. Make sure your liver's covered, all right?”

“Make sure you're covered too,” Morsov said, remembering.

“I don't get cold easily.”

But in the darkness, he let Morsov tuck him in, covering his shoulders and his head, catching and kissing Morsov before Morsov could draw away.

“Once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away...” 

*****

They didn't need light for what they did. The lantern had long since been put out, and it sat heating up the inside of the car with its remnant heat. Slit's mouth found him first in the darkness, and Nux gasped, clinging to Slit's shoulders as Slit took him in deep with the hint of sharp teeth at the edges, Slit's dry lips tight around his erection.

Slit's breaths came hard; the pain of stretching the scars along the sides of his mouth was sharp, and he could barely open his mouth wide enough for this. Fumbling with his trousers, he undid them, pulling his own cock out, hard and eager, pulsing in his hand like the thick rubber hose of the guzzoline line at fueling. 

“Ah, that's good...Slit. Been thinking about this all day,” Nux whispered between gasps, his fingers digging hard into Slit's shoulders. “About...you coming down through the top door and working my shift stick while I'm driving...yeah, yeah. Just like that.”

Slit pushed Nux's legs apart wider, his hand cupping the tender, silky skin of Nux's scrotum, Nux's wiry hairs tickling his palm. Slit's breaths hissed as he took Nux harder, his head bobbing to the rhythm of the road and it seemed that Nux grew infinitesimally harder and the stretching pain of the scar tissue was almost unbearable and immediately it made Slit think that perhaps the wound would tear open again. Just that thought, that thought of pain and blood and imagining the wound tearing open and Slit came with a choked sound, shooting into his palm, catching the hot leavings as Nux's cock pulsed in his mouth and Nux came with a sharp breath and a shudder.

Slit swallowed, licking his lips, savoring the sweet taste of Nux in his mouth.

Immediately Nux's fingers stroked tender along his head, along his shoulders, as if to apologize for the little half-moon marks of his nails that Slit could still feel indented into his skin.

“Here,” Nux murmured, and he took Slit's damp hand, licking the cooling semen, starting at Slit's cupped palm and licking down his wrist and along the tips of his fingers. When Nux was done, he took Slit's other hand and kissed his palm and the sensitive flesh at the base of his palm, just above the metal junction of the bracer.

“When we get to Bartertown, I want to buy us new dustwraps. Matching ones,” Nux murmured, as they eased down to the bare bit of floor on the passenger side. Slit pulled the blanket over them; it was a tight fit, uncomfortable, but it was warmer this way than if they slept separately.

Slit couldn't help but feel the giddiness of joy, of contentment, feeling the heat of Nux's body beside him, the sweet languor of sleep beckoning him and the lingering traces of pleasure and pain still tingling along his skin. And then as he began to drowse off, he thought about the long road, just him and his Driver and the cold dry wind of the waste whistling past his ears and maybe he would do what Nux had suggested, sneak in through the top door ostensibly for a break from the wind, but to suck Nux off, to see how he could maintain his pace even while they drove.

And then Slit suddenly remembered where it was where they were going, as if somehow the stresses of the days before had somehow made full understanding elude him.

They were going back. Back to where he was born, and where he lived for the first part of his life.

Bartertown.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for self harm, implied child abuse. As usual, please check the tags.

In the cramped confines of the front gunner's nest atop the War Rig's tanker, Dart fiddled through the racks of radios, listening for the telltale static bursts of Buzzard code, the quick staccato of Trader communications, or the faint threads of music and voices that occasionally could be heard no matter where they were in the wasteland. 

In between turning dials and angling antennae, Dart took pauses to stare at a small game board made of etched sheet metal and magnetic pieces, puzzling over the possible moves. Occasionally, Tran, Coil, or Morsov would come up to the front gunner's nest from the back and make a move on the board and a moment later, Dart would move his piece with brisk impatience, already ready for the next move.

The Ace lounged on the sunny step between the two halves of the gunner's nest, eyes half-closed beneath the lenses of his black-smoked goggles, listening to the staticky beat of a distant song, tapping his boot in time with the tinny music that cut in and out until it abruptly disappeared.

As the War Rig rumbled on, static silence was replaced by a sudden burst of rhythmic beeps as multiple devices picked up multiple signals. Dart dug out a fat stack of rough paper bound together by wire and made a note as to the time and what he had heard. Traders, he wrote in the log column, and noted the time.

“We're too far out from Bartertown for this. 'Nother day and a half drive, counting breaks.” The Ace sat up. “Someone must be broken down.” 

“You think it's a trap?” Dart asked, adding it to the log.

“Beat's too clean and precise to be Bandits or road warriors. They can't produce a sound this clear. But anything's possible.”

The Ace stood, the wind crisp and dry, tasting faintly of ozone, and he glanced down at the cab, before hopping lightly down onto the cab and making his way to the crew lead's perch.

“Boss, we got Traders on the line. Think there's a breakdown around here, probably five, six clicks away at most.”

“All right.” Furiosa knew the procedure; she had seen it done more than once before as an escort Driver. Checking the landscape, she found and aimed the convoy at the nearest high piece of ground, barely a click away, sounding the horn once to call for a halt.

*****

Nux glanced back and his lips tightened into a pursed smile, seeing the muscled outline of Slit's torso through the back window. A moment of pure indulgence, he thought, as turned his attention back to the business of driving. He looked out the window, scanning the horizon as best he could through the dust kicked up by the escort drivers ahead of him, and glanced at the distance between his car and the War Rig. Eyeing the dials, he checked the temperature gauge and the rpm, his left hand stroking over the smooth knob of the shift before returning it to the wheel, gripping it tight to keep the vehicle in line as they went over the teeth-rattling terrain.

Once the ground smoothed out and he could relax a little, Nux opened the top door and gave a little wave of his fingers.

Slit came down soon enough, eagerly swinging down into the cab, settling down beside the Driver's seat on the floor. Nux closed the top door, blocking out the dust and the whistling wind. Slit pulled off his goggles and dust mask.

Nux glanced over at Slit and laughed at the comically white mask over his eyes and mouth where they were not stained ochre.

“What's so funny?”

Thinking fast, Nux replied, “You're wearing so much dust that you almost look like an Imperator.”

“So what if I was,” Slit grimaced, showing teeth, though Nux knew it was a look of pleasure and not one of anger. “Would make a better Imperator than you.”

“Oh, I'm sure you would.”

“That wasn't why you wanted me here.”

“Just thought you'd like a little break out of the wind, that's all.”

Slit glanced at the dials, checking the time. “Bout time for food. You hungry?”

“No.” 

“You said that during the last food break. Come on, little Nux. You can't do war if you don't eat proper. On the road, that means five times a day. You're burning kilocalories faster driving than sitting on your butt in shop.” Slit rummaged beneath the Driver's seat for the stored food bars.

“Fine, fine,” Nux said lightly, secretly delighted; this was what Drivers and Lancers did on the road, he thought, they took care of each other and tended to each other's needs, and it was exactly what he had dreamt of for ages, this closeness, this working intimacy, and-

“Here.” The food bar came shoving into his face against his lips and Nux laughed, only for Slit to jam it into his open mouth.

“Nhgh!” Nux took a bite and waved him off. He tried to talk around the mouthful of dried food, “Don't have to feed me.”

“What?”

Nux chewed slowly, building up saliva in his mouth to wet the crumbly food. Bits of grain, chewy pieces of walnuts, greens...he swallowed it all down, bit by bit. “I said, you don't have to feed...mrpgh!” Another mouthful, shoveled in by Slit, and he found himself giggling while trying to eat and not choke at the same time.

“Water,” Nux gasped, after swallowing down another bite of mealy food bar and Slit shoved the open mouth of the canteen against his lips.

Carefully, Nux drank so as not to spill a drop, and this time he was ready; when Slit shoved the food bar at him again, he caught Slit's wrist in a firm grip.

“Hey, a little more gentle there, Lancer. No shoving it in dry,” Nux joked.

“Fine. Do it yourself then.” Slit handed him the food bar and sat back down on the floor, eating in sullen silence, hunched over his food. 

Nux finished his food, and washed it down with a mouthful of water, tasting the metallic sweetness of sun-warmed Aqua-Cola. He reached over to Slit, to stroke his head, but Slit pulled away before Nux could touch him.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” Slit laid back on the floor of the car, boots up on the dash and Nux glanced over at him, wondering. He had some ideas as to what could be troubling Slit, and so he ran through the possibilities before settling on a comment to test out his theory.

“When we get to Barter-”

“Stop saying that,” Slit snapped. “Know where we're going, you don't have to keep saying it.”

“Fine,” Nux said mildly. It was clear to him that Slit was troubled; ever since they woke up this morning, Slit had been ill at ease, touchy and upset and it was obvious to Nux now that the source of the problem was probably related to Bartertown.

If Nux thought about it more deeply, just a long still moment of remembering, he could just about hear Slit's younger voice, telling him about the place.

“ _...a filthhole, full of raging ferals..._ ”

He thought of what to say to Slit. That it would be fine when they were in Bartertown, that Nux had his back, always, just as the vows and promises went, but that it was more than that. That even if they hadn't been paired, he would have had eyes on for Slit anyway, no matter what. 

But he knew Slit would despise him for saying it.

Nux heard the War Rig's horn sound the halt. Relieved, he pushed away his thoughts and began to pace himself to the War Rig more carefully as the War Rig swung toward the left and began to slow down. Quickly, Slit sat up and opened the top door, climbing out to the lancer's perch as Nux slowly brought the car to a stop, idling the engine.

*****

After pulling the handbrake, Furiosa eased her aching left arm down, letting the bulk of the weight rest on the driver's seat and she sighed at the release of tension. Sliding open the top door, she listened to her crew of Half-life Nobles discussing what to do: if they couldn't spot the vehicle or the convoy, it wouldn't be worth the time and guzzoline it'd take to ferret them out. But the primary rule of the waste was strong, no civilized people would leave others to die in the wilderness. Only ferals such as road warriors and Buzzards attacked people who were broken down; there was always an obligation to help if it was possible even if sometimes it became a pursuit-and-interceptor game trying to pinpoint a location.

With a sigh she grabbed her field glasses off the dash and got up, climbing atop the seats, one foot on each, steadying herself. Peering through the lenses revealed nothing to her but the familiar desolation of the world.

“Any sign?” She asked, glancing up at the the Ace and Dart in the front gunner's nest.

“Not yet, Imperator.”

“Keep looking.” Furiosa brought up the field glasses up to her eyes again and scanned the waste, looking for the telltale glint of metal until she remembered that Traders often disguised their vehicles with rust and dusty canvas to evade the prying eyes of scavengers. They weren't like War Boys who ostentatiously ran in black and white and chrome, conspicuous on the open waste as if daring their opponents into battle.

Even from here she could hear the frantic beat of the Trader communications on the radio, a code that none but other Traders might understand. She knew that most civilized people around the waste used a similar code, based on an ancient language, but as groups had spread out, the base language had been adapted, permutated and encrypted into new languages unrecognizable to outsiders.

It was a dangerous thing using radio, Furiosa thought. A person could never be sure of who might be listening in, be it harmless travelers or hungry road warriors looking for their next meal. It affirmed her Citadel-tinted beliefs, that the heliograph was safer as it had a narrow range of visibility, and one had to know it was coming to intercept the message.

Furiosa's brow furrowed as she slowly scanned the horizon from the fixed point she picked, scanning the waste segment by segment the way she had been taught. If they couldn't find the Traders soon, ferals might. 

But it seemed that she was looking in the wrong direction. Before long, someone else had spotted the Traders.

“There!” Unsurprisingly, sharp-eyed Dart was the first to sight the Traders. “Next to that hill!”

“All right, let's go!” Furiosa climbed down, bracing herself with her heavy metal arm. 

*****

The Trader caravan was bigger than it had appeared from a distance, huddled beside the gentle curve of a small hill, no more than a little bump of the waste, the only bit of protection the caravan could have found in such a broad flat stretch. The heavy trucks and cars of the caravan carefully parked pointed outward so that they could run at a moment's notice.

Gauging the distance, she downshifted, and around her, the escort vehicles began to decelerate to keep pace with the War Rig. Before long she stopped, idling the engine and setting the brake. Sliding open the top door, she meant to take a look for herself, but the Ace plucked the field glasses from her hand, standing up to peer at the Trader's caravan instead.

Furiosa's lips tightened into a frown. 

“Four trucks. Three cars. Five motorcycles. No, stay down, Fury, there might be snipers.” 

“Does it look like an ambush?” 

“Nah, no cover for klicks around. If it's an ambush, it's not a very good one. Pretty good sized caravan. Anywhere from 19 to 31 people. Could be more if they got their kids and passengers with 'em. Probably half the adults armed, not counting passengers. That's how they run, just like we do, one driver and at least one gunner per vehicle.”

“All right.” Furiosa pulled the handbrake, letting the War Rig ease itself forward, and all around the convoy began to creep forward as well.

“Careful. You'll want to approach slow,” the Ace said. “Stop a polite distance away, keep 'em from gettin the wrong idea about why we're here.”

“Yes, I know.” Cautiously, Furiosa pulled up about half a klick away, keeping seconds between the Trader caravan and their own vehicles. Reaching over, she shifted to neutral and brought the War Rig to a halt.

“All right. Now's my turn.” The Ace grabbed a small clear glass bottle from the dash, the one that was specifically brought on long haul drives for this purpose.

“Wait.” Furiosa said. “I'd feel more comfortable going myself.” 

“Nah. Driver stays with the car. You know that. 'Sides, losing a War Boy is one thing, we lose an Imperator, that's something hard to explain to the Daddy.” The Ace gave her a stern look. “You seen me do this before in the past, you seen Moki do it too. Now's not the time to get cold pistoned, Furiosa.” Without another word, he clipped the water bottle to his belt and opened the door, hopping down onto the sandy ground with a jingling thud.

Cautiously the Ace stepped forward toward the Traders, his hands raised high. Furiosa winced, gripping the steering wheel tight with her good hand, cognizant of all the weapons pointed from both sides; this was always the most stressful and most delicate, nervous part of any meeting of two groups in the waste.

Her mechanical hand clicked and whirred as the ersatz fingers closed tight upon themselves.

She glanced ahead at the frontrunner vehicles. The Lancer on the gun-mounted car seemed to sit casually on his perch, but his hands had pointed the heavy machine gun toward the Trader convoy, finger ready on the trigger.

If they could get through the next few minutes, she thought, if they could just get through that, it would be fine.

 

“I am Ace, of the Citadel. A War Boy.” The Ace spoke loudly, his harsh voice carrying. “Received your distress call, came to see if we could be of any help.”

Slowly a black-clad Trader appeared from behind the bristling defensive hedge of cars, their hands raised high as well. A clear round bottle of water was strapped to their hip, and seeing it gave Furiosa hope that this would go well. 

As the Trader drew closer to the Ace, Furiosa realized how short of stature the Trader was; the Ace was almost two hands taller. The Trader stepped forward to the Ace, and gestured with their fingers.

Pax. Even Furiosa recognized that ancient, universal sign, formed with two fingers held up.

Ace made the same sign, though not as smoothly or as fluently, and both eased their hands down. Together, the Ace and the Trader both unfastened the glass water bottles from their belts and handed them to each other.

As sun-darkened as engine oil, the Trader briefly moved their gloved hand to unclasp their condenser, revealing tawny tender skin around their mouth and chin, protected from the bright sun of the waste and the harsh dry winds. They took a sip from the Ace's bottle, just as the Ace took a sip from the Trader's bottle.

A moment later, much of the tension had melted out of the air, and guns on both sides were lowered though not put away.

“I am Garru, of the Narrandera,” the Trader said loudly, rolling their r's. “Thank you for answering our distress call, Citadel.” The Trader took a second and a third sip, one after the other, which prompted the Ace to do the same, mimicking the Trader. The bottles of water were traded back, and the Ace and the Trader clasped hands. At once, guns were lowered on both sides and holstered as the temporary truce was sworn. With a sigh of relief, Furiosa killed the engine, setting the handbrake, and all around the escort vehicles did the same, the growling rumble of engines silenced.

***** 

“Don't think you should trust them so easily,” Slit growled, as Nux sorted out his tools and dug out his car kit.

“Imperator's asking for Blackthumbs, why are you so worried?”

Slit hovered over Nux's shoulder, watching him pick and choose which tool to bring. “Can't trust Traders and Merchants. They're bound to bust a deal faster than-”

“You're worried about me, aren't you?” Nux smiled, touched.

“Nux, stop being an idiot and listen-”

“Oh, don't be so worried.” Nux turned and set his hand on Slit's shoulder, giving him a squeeze. “I'm not the only Blackthumb going out. Stonker's coming with me, and Morsov's coming along as an assistant, but really to guard us just in case something happens. You know that not all Traders are bad. The Ace said we've had good dealings with the Narranderas before. They're a big trading operation, one of the biggest around. I'll be fine.”

“I'm coming with you.”

“Slit, you need to stay with the car. In case we have to go with little notice and I can't drive.”

“See, why go if you already know that you can't trust Traders...”

Nux shook his head. “What have you got against Traders anyway? They're fine, absolutely harmless. All they care about is moving goods and people, they don't do war.”

Slit glared at Nux, amazed that he had forgotten, that years ago he told Nux what a Trader had done to him in Bartertown as a child. 

No, Nux forgot very little; he must have chosen to forget. 

Slit's eyes grew cold. “Fine. Do whatever you like. Just remember, the People Eater used to be a Trader too.”

“He doesn't like to do war either. He just runs the business, makes sure the wells and refineries pump out on time. What do you have against him?”

“So go then, and try not to die.”

“I really appreciate your concern, Lancer.” Nux leaned over and kissed Slit on the cheek.

“Shut up!” Slit pushed Nux away, though not as hard as he wanted to. “And stop calling me that!”

*****

Up close, Garru was much older than Furiosa had initially thought, with strands of silver tangled through their curly black hair and the crinkled lines of wrinkles around their dark brown eyes. As with most travelers of the waste, it was hard to tell if Garru was male or female; Traders were particularly hard to tell apart as the men shaved clean to properly seal their condensers, but Garru's voice had a light, musical quality to it that made Furiosa wonder if they were female.

“We've sent for the mechanics,” Furiosa said. “You'll have to move your caravan.”

“A polite distance,” Garru agreed, with a spare, elegant gesture of their hand. “They're already moving.”

One by one, vehicles pulled away from the two stricken vehicles, going only as far away as the Citadel's convoy, so that the broken-down trucks were set equidistant between the two groups of vehicles.

“The Noongar truck broke an axle, so we Narrandera agreed to tow,” Garru explained as they watched the proceedings. “Swapped out all three trucks one at a time, but the third one failed, blew out the engine. Noongar has some parts and Narrandera has a mechanic, but it would be faster with help and help guarding. If we can get out of this alive with all four wheels to the ground, we'll be in your debt.” Garru's face was stoic, without expression, but for a certain tightness around their eyes. 

Unsure of how to reply, Furiosa paused. In the past, she had occasionally been one of the Blackthumbs drafted to help fix a stranded vehicle. She knew that it was not out of the question to demand some trade goods in return; guzzoline if extra was available, sometimes some other trade goods that could be easily hauled away, if there was space to haul it. Once in a while, if a job took a few hours, perhaps even a child. A fix this complicated that might need so many extra parts and one, that set everyone's run behind schedule, was easily worth a new War Pup. 

“We don't need or want anything,” Furiosa finally said, though she could imagine what the Ace would say to that. It was already breaking with custom, but then she thought perhaps some customs were worth breaking, if it meant not breaking up families.

“You're not like the usual Imperator.” Garru's eyes lingered on her, running over her shoulders and bare chest, the tight brace around her waist that helped her manage the arm, before settling on her mechanical hand.

Furiosa shrugged and Garru nodded, as if reading deeply into that motion. 

“Had you met him before?” Furiosa asked.

“Maybe, maybe not. We see a lot on the road. Other Traders, settlers, caravanserai, travelers...” Garru glanced over Furiosa again, dark eyes lingering on her exposed skin. “Is he dead?”

“Who?”

“The usual guy. War Boy Acosta Imperator of the Citadel.”

Furiosa nodded, and almost said 'Witnessed' out of habit, but somehow managed to bite her words back before the Trader, remembering that War Boy rites were only for their own.

“How?”

“War.” Furiosa said simply, as if that would explain everything.

“Jackals.” Garru scowled and made a sharp sign with their fingers. Though Furiosa did not know what the gesture meant, the rude contempt was clear.

“Teach me how to do that? With your fingers.” 

“It's anti-pax. Like pax, only with your palm facing yourself. I add a hand twist and scoop, which makes it worse. If you want to make it stronger, you do this with your other elbow...” Garru paused as the staging of the vehicles was complete. “Narrandera! Noongar!” Garru shouted, and gestured, fast movements of their hands in Trader Lingo that Furiosa could not understand. Three of the Traders stayed with the broken-down vehicles and the rest walked away from the convoy. The Ace was right, Furiosa thought, there were more Traders than she had expected and this hinted at a show of force, to let the War Boys know that the Traders were not completely harmless. 

The Ace waved to her from the War Rig, where they had rounded up the Blackthumbs. “Mechanics ready,” he said, his voice pitched to carry.

Furiosa waved with her right hand. “Send them over.”

*****

“Well, there's our signal. How many seconds to interception?” Stonker joked, giving Morsov a wink.

“Four, five minutes to walk? 300 seconds maximum.” Morsov answered seriously, picking up the heavy car jack. In a pinch it would do as a weapon, and he cradled it in the crook of his left arm, hoping that he wouldn't have to use it, not that it would buy any more than a few seconds before the guns came out.

Morsov glanced between Stonker and Nux, wondering who he should protect first if it came down to it. Stonker, probably, as a matter of rank, because he drove a higher number than Nux and had more experience. But then Morsov felt guilty, unworthy, for not first thinking of his cohortmate. As if his body had to prove the fact of his loyalty, he stepped a little closer to Nux as they walked. But Stonker stayed right beside him, and the tall War Boy's fingers brushed against the little patch of bare skin on the back of Morsov's hand that was not covered by his glove, and the touch sent a ticklish shiver tingling along Morsov's skin.

For a moment, all he could think about was the hot press of Stonker's lips, the taste of Stonker's mouth.

Glad for the white that concealed his hot blush, Morsov looked ahead toward the vehicle, afraid of becoming distracted, keeping an eye on the Traders.

As they tromped through the waste, walking the half-click over hard-packed dirt to the broken-down Trader trucks, Nux glanced over at Stonker. “Of all the Blackthumbs, why do you suppose they sent the two of us?”

“Think it's because we're the tallest,” Stonker said. “Makes the Citadel boys look even more impressive, like we're all giants. If you think about it, including the Ace and the Imperator, they haven't seen anyone less than 10 hands up close.” 

“Huh, good point.” Nux said. “Hadn't thought of that. Here I thought it was because we were younger Drivers and they didn't want to lose more experienced War Boys.”

“Maybe? Though if that were the case, they should be sending out the boys who are closer to their half-lives. You should ask the Ace when we get back,” Stonker joked.

“You mean, if we get back,” Morsov said dryly, and the three chuckled nervously as they approached the trucks.

*****

Slit watched from the car as Nux walked away, his eyes darting between Nux and the kill switches, twitchy fingers playing over the switches without activating the ignition. But the Imperator was with the enemy, and the Ace was at the wheel of the War Rig; that meant everything was held at a standoff and he could do nothing but wait.

Even at a distance it was easy to tell which one was Nux. Tall but not quite as tall as Stonker, not as short as Morsov, slouching but strongly built, with the chassis that he had strengthened for the Initiation. The bodywork that had made Slit the envy of others, to be mates with one so strong and well-proportioned, a War Boy of War Boys, balanced in both strength and beauty.

Slit's breaths came harsh, fast as Nux greeted the Traders, politely clasping hands, but then the Traders walked away and Nux was left with Morsov and Stonker.

He found that his right hand was gripping his knife tightly, the new one that Nux had given him, running his thumb over the wire-wrapped hilt, feeling the individual lines of wire under his thumbnail.

His eyes moved again to the kill switches. It was only a few seconds away. If it had to come down to it, he'd get his Driver back himself.

But still there was no signal from the War Rig, and Slit knew he couldn't move without a signal. Doing so would be dishonorable, not just because of disobeying orders, but of flinching at the drawn barrel of the gun, something only a coward would do. 

War Boys faced their problems directly and showed no fear before their enemies.

In the distance, the three War Boys began to jack up the truck, its lamp-strewn nose tilting up. Nux shimmied beneath the car, his boots sticking out from underneath the engine.

Slit unsheathed the knife with a slick motion, and pressed the sharp blade against his hand, feeling the keen edge press against the pad of his thumb without breaking the skin.

*****

The work went by quickly in silence. The three Traders worked on patching the axle of the one truck, and the three War Boys went about diagnosing and fixing the blown engine of the other. Stacked all around were the goods, mostly unloaded to lighten the trucks, and it was amazing to the War Boys how much had been put into the trucks.

“Overload.” Nux whispered to Stonker, behind safe shield of the open hood of the truck, and Stonker rolled his eyes, lips quirked in amusement; the trucks were probably already at their limit for weight from the goods and passengers, and for one to be towing the other, it seemed to the War Boys that it was only a matter of time before mechanical failure. 

The three Traders didn't speak as they worked and made no sound but for their breathing, which hissed quietly through their condensers. Later, the War Boys would describe the three as being similar in size and shape, dressed in the usual three piece outfit that Traders traditionally wore, and mainly distinguished by the different colored and patterned waistcoats they wore with their drab dust-colored coats and trousers. Though the colors were deeply faded from the sun, they were still discernible: red check, pink stripe, and a solid bruised blue.

“They're actually talking,” Stonker said softly, as he went through his mental diagnosis checklist, Morsov holding the torch, aiming it into shadowy spaces so Stonker could better inspect the engine. It was the way many Revheads learned to talk in shop, in a hushed murmur that could not be heard from more than two or three hands away, so as not to be overheard by a domineering Driver who could assign punishment for too much chatter.

“Really?” Morsov wondered. “How do you know?”

“That's how Traders talk, is with their hands.”

“What are they saying?” Nux asked from beneath the truck. “Anything interesting?”

“Just gossip. Some things about the other Traders. People they're meeting at Bartertown.” Stonker glanced back, wiping greasy hands with his shop cloth so that he could get a better grip on a part.

“Anyone interesting?”

“Someone named Aunty Entity?” Stonker said quietly, but as he said it one of the Traders turned and looked directly at him. The Trader turned to the others briefly, their hands hidden from view, but then kept glancing back, surreptitiously gesturing to Stonker. 

Stonker grimaced, nervous. 

“Oh rust and wear. He must have...how did he? Did he read it off my mouth?” Stonker muttered under his breath. “Heads up mates, Pinkie's coming right over.”

The Trader with the pink-striped waistcoat strode over briskly.

“How goes the work?” Morsov said boldly, moving quickly to place himself between Stonker and the Trader. Though smaller and lighter built than the War Boy, the Trader faced Morsov without fear. Curling strands of white hair escaped their hood, and unlike the other Traders whose faces and hair were otherwise uncovered but for their condensers, this one was covered up completely; every inch of skin was concealed from view. Even their eyes were hidden, shaded by smoked lenses. They briefly pulling off their mask to reveal a small mouth with faintly pink, sensuously curved lips and smooth skin so stark white that made Morsov briefly wonder if they were secretly wearing the white.

“Need to talk to the mechanic,” the Trader said curtly, before replacing the condenser and striding up to Stonker, quickly and easily bypassing Morsov.

Stonker straightened up from beneath the hood, a little flustered. “Was there something you nee-”

The Trader signed to him. Trader? Understand?

Small, Stonker replied.

You are Trader?

No, Stonker replied. “War Boy,” he said out loud, unsure of what sign was used to indicate War Boys. 

You understand.

Yes, small.

Enough. Your name?

Stonker thought for a moment, and replied with the name he remembered from his childhood, the one that he only knew by sign, the name that he never spoke aloud because he didn't know how it was supposed to sound. Fingerspelling through the letters, he signed to the Trader: N-G-U-Y-E-N. 

Nguyen! The Trader nearly jumped out of their tall boots. East? Southeast? Northeast? What Nguyen? Many Nguyen Traders.

Stonker shrugged. “Dunno. Didn't know there were different ones.”

The Trader suddenly began to sign in a quick, excited flurry, and Stonker shook his head. “Don't understand all of that. Just a few words here and there. Look, I better get back to work so we can get back on the road. You too.”

The Trader shook their head and pulled off their condenser. Clearing their throat, the Trader addressed him, their voice high and sweet, “What was your caravan, War Boy?”

“Never had one. Was born in the Citadel,” Stonker replied. 

The Trader looked at Stonker, alarmed. “But you have a Trader name!”

“For what it's worth, I'm called Stonker. No one ever calls me that other name.”

“How do you have a Trader name?”

Stonker shrugged. “Dunno. From my mother, I think?”

The Trader shook their head. “I'll have to ask old Noongar. I'm too young to know. There are sometimes lost caravans. Maybe that's where you're from?”

“Yeah. Heard something about it a long time ago. Almost everyone killed but for a few survivors. They were rescued by the Citadel,” Stonker said, but before they could continue, there was a shout; the Trader was called back by the others.

“Must go.” The Trader slipped on their condenser again, obscuring their face. But just as Stonker was about to return to work, the Trader caught Stonker's elbow lightly, getting his attention and signed to him by fingerspelling: Noongar. Marlee. Trader.

Nguyen. Stonker. War Boy, Stonker replied in the same manner. The Trader waved goodbye and strode off to join their mates.

Feeling unsettled and oddly disappointed, Stonker turned back to the work at hand.

“What was that about?” Nux wiggled his way out from beneath the engine, covered with dirt, patting himself off as he sat up.

“Not sure,” Stonker said. “Maybe they think I'm family.”

“Ha! That'd be something. Gonna tour the wasteland with the whole trade mob?” Nux laughed. “Hey look, it's just what I thought it was, the fan belt's done for, but nothing else is busted up beyond repair, which is pretty good because we don't have a spare engine. Was afraid they had thrown a piston or something but the engine looks fine. Probably needs a good stiff drink of coolant after we get the new belt on. You wanna tell the Imperator or should I?”

“Morsov, mind going?” Relieved for the distraction of work, Stonker set aside his curiosity about the Traders. “See if they have a compatible replacement. Nux, let's get this belt off and patched. If there isn't a replacement, hopefully we can get it mended enough to make the final leg to Bartertown.”

*****

Slit watched from behind the Driver's wheel, gripping the leather-bound wheel tight, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the Trader stepped away from the War Boys without any further action.

Unbuttoning his trousers and veritably trembling with the pleasure of anticipated pain, he pressed the edge of the knife to his scarred inner thigh, part of the only human-colored parts of his body that the white did not touch, and he sighed as the blood bloomed beneath the sharp tip.

*****

“How far does your caravan trade?” Furiosa asked politely. Just looking at the unloaded goods gave her an idea of what they were running. Eyeing the trucks and estimating the volume, she guessed that the total goods between all the vehicles were probably as much if not more than the Citadel's goods, though perhaps a little less if she were to account for living space, extra passengers, and the Traders' own supplies, the things that did not get traded away but were kept for their sustenance.

“Far,” Garru said, vaguely, gesturing to the waste as if the barren land could explain it all. “We've been traveling a long way to get here.”

“How many days?”

“Many.”

“What about...do you get enough water and food then?” Furiosa asked. “I've often wondered, because the trade goods I've seen Traders run are good, but not that great.”

Garru's eyes seemed amused, even though their mouth did not move. “By custom the settlements feed us, water us, and gift us when we arrive and when we leave. We bring news and messages, we move people and things from one end of the waste to the other. All families run in different directions but Narrandera is a big family.”

Furiosa watched as the War Boys packed up and said their farewells. After they had safely returned to the convoy of Citadel vehicles, the Traders quickly returned to their trucks to reload the goods, working quickly and efficiently. Furiosa straightened up, the prepared words of farewell ready on her tongue, but then Garru interrupted her before she could speak.

“We owe you a debt,” Garru said again, and Furiosa again shook her head.

“It's nothing.”

“Saying that puts us in greater debt.”

“I mean it,” Furiosa said. “It's nothing.”

“We have a boy,” Garru said haltingly. “Noongar offered one of their sons in return for our lives. He's healthy, has all his teeth, and no illnesses. He's a good boy, young but does what he's told.”

“In the past, maybe things were different. But...” Furiosa squared her shoulders, holding herself upright, meeting Garru's gaze straightforward. “Any custom can be changed. And I'm changing the custom. We won't take your boy. It's not worth breaking up a family for something as little as a fan belt and a new axle.”

Garru looked genuinely shocked, and for a long moment said nothing, pressing their hands to their heart in a gesture of profound relief. It sent strange sensation through Furiosa, an odd feeling that gnawed guilty in her innards.

“Thank you,” Garru said softly, their voice roughened with emotion. “From one woman to another, thank you. I see you understand how a mother feels.”

A sudden jolt of excitement went through Furiosa; this was a woman, and an older one too.

Dazed, Furiosa ran her eyes over the details of Garru's figure, the faintest curve of breast below the dust wrap and above the faded black waistcoat, wondering how she had missed it the first time around.

Garru was a leader of her people. Furiosa suddenly recalled conversations she had overheard in the past, that high-ranked Traders wore black, and the highest wore their suits so long that the black faded to charcoal gray, and here was one of those legendary Trading leaders, even though it had taken Furiosa a long while to realize it. No wonder the Ace had let her visit with the Trader, Furiosa thought, it was a way of building future alliances.

This was a woman, another woman, a leader of her people. The words ran over and over in Furiosa's mind like a song, and Furiosa drank in her presence like pure water after a long dusty drive.

“It's- don't worry...it's really. Really nothing.” Furiosa's words came out stumble-skewed and she found herself unable to properly reply.

“We can't leave you empty-handed,” Garru said. “That's not our way. Trade in kind means we must give you something of equal value.”

“It's not necessary. Really.”

Garru shook her head and pulled off her glove to offer Furiosa her bare hand. “As valuable as a child. Maybe more. Narrandera Garru of the Southwest Track offers you friendship, War Boy Furiosa Imperator of the Citadel. Friendship for the fairness, friendship for the trust. And friendship for the help.”

Furiosa's eyes widened with wonder; she had never heard of this sort of offer. 

Her hand rose to meet Garru's hand, but then she hesitated.

“What...does friendship entail?”

“Alliance. Assistance. A favor,” Garru said. “Probably our tracks will not cross again. The waste is a big place. But there are Narrandera in Bartertown that can help you if you need help. They do the business inside while we walk the waste tracks outside. Saves on the entry fee. Tell them Garru owes you.”

“Would they believe me? How would they know I'm telling the truth?”

“Say to them this: 'Remember her when you look at the night sky.' And if they answer, 'I will,” you will know that they are Narrandera for true and they will know it is my word for true,” Garru replied. “Eventually the engines all cool. Even if I am dead, another Narrandera will answer. We pay our debts.”

Furiosa looked at her hand for a moment, her good hand, and then clasped the Trader's hand tight. The Trader's grip was firm, and there was a warmth to the touch that made Furiosa reluctant to let go.

“Thank you, Garru. Likely I won't need to call in the favor, but I appreciate it.”

“We pay our debts.” Without another word, the Trader clasped her condenser over her mouth and nose, and strode off, dust swirling at their heels, leaving Furiosa to ponder her leaving with a strange unsettled longing.

*****

“...and after all that, the Traders never bothered trying to talk to Stonker again. Isn't that strange? They sure are an odd lot,” Nux said, holding up the little mirror and tilting it in the lamp-lit darkness, scraping the razor over his chin, carefully shaving off the scruff that had accumulated after days on the road. 

Slit grunted, not an answer at all, and Nux wondered if the Lancer was even listening to him. But then his eyes wandered briefly over to Slit, sneaking a glance as Slit smeared himself all over with a fresh damp coat of the white.

Slit's hands moved over his own body mechanically, his eyes were fixed in the distance.

Over the course of the long afternoon's drive, the sky had turned overcast; clouds had blown in from the east and obscured the moon and the stars.

They were close enough to Bartertown to see it on the distant horizon, the orange glow of the Bartertown lights, famous for its brightness. The Jewel of the Waste, the Hope for a Better Tomorrow, the City Upon a Hill, and it seemed that like the legendary ancient city from Before, all roads led to Bartertown. Dimly lit dusting tracks meandered and spiraled around the great plateau as travelers from all throughout the waste made their way into Bartertown.

The sodium vapor glow illuminated the gloomy clouds from below, the light spreading out in a toxic orange mushroom cloud over the town, hinting at danger and crackling dust, radioactive excitement and Nux could feel the anticipation poisoning his very bones.

A bolt of bright white light shone up into the sky suddenly, piercing the clouds with a pure white beam.

“Shine,” Nux said reflexively, the beauty of the light sending a strange wistfulness through his body and for a moment he thought this must be what Valhalla looked like, pure and clean and beautiful, untouched by the filth of the world. 

Slit gave him a flat look of disdain. “It only looks shiny at night when the lights are all on. They do it on purpose, to show off how big their methane farm is. 'Helping Build a Better Tomorrow.'” Slit rubbed his hands together to get rid of the excess white. “There's no need to waste that much energy, no one needs that much light at night to live by. And believe me, there's nothing shine about it once you see it in the daytime. It's a filthhole and nothing more. They call it all sorts of nice things, but you know what it really is? The Anus of the Waste. The Hope of Mutually-Assured Nuclear Annihilation. The City Upon a Dunghill.”

“What a thing to say!” Nux laughed, shocked. “Anyway, do you know what's going on with that light?”

“Just another edition of Thunderdome,” Slit said dismissively.

“Oh wow! Thunderdome! And to think we're missing out. Do you think we'll get to see it?”

“You could see the same thing at home if you throw a whole food bar over the edge to the Wretched. Editions of Thunderdome are just one feral fighting another feral, usually for far less than a mouthful to eat. Are you done yet? You take too long.” Slit held tensed arms out to let the white dry more quickly, the cold dry wind quickly stealing the moisture from his skin.

“Almost.” And Nux felt at his chin, feeling the barest scrape of stubble beneath his fingers, which meant that he had shaved clean enough. “It'd go faster if you helped.” He glanced over at the other lamp-lit vehicles. All around, War Boys were helping each other clean up. A cocky young Moto-Lancer had joined a support truck's crew of Lancers and their Driver; the six of them were taking turns shaving each other's heads and faces, boasting and gossiping, chatting, chuckling over some joke or another, singing little ditties. Nearby, a Driver and a Lancer sat with their legs twined tenderly together as the Lancer carefully shaved the Driver's stubbly chin, and they whispered secrets to each other, their hands on each other's shoulders like the best and truest of mates. 

Nux sighed.

“You're a grown War Boy, you can manage,” Slit said irritably. “Going to the waste truck, don't wait up for me.”

“Fine, do whatever you like...” Nux took the wet canister of white that Slit left for him, and began to apply a fresh new coat, shivering. 

His eyes wandered to that pure white beam of light, and he smiled at it wistfully as though it were the moon.


	10. Bartertown

The support truck carved a thin crescent curve through the dirt and gravel as it swung around, dust clouds roiling as it jolted to a halt, briefly scattering the crowd waiting at the main gate of Bartertown. It stopped close, close enough to make the nearby tents billow and shake as though caught in a storm.

As the dust settled, Furiosa pulled down her black dust wrap and dismounted, along with her escort, a handful of War Boys that had been selected for the honor. She watched as a tall War Boy offered Morsov a hand down off the truck bed, the kind of courtly gesture from a Driver to his Lancer that young starry-eyed War Boys daydreamed about.

Once everyone was off, she banged the side of the truck and in a flash it was off with a showy roaring rev of its engine, circling back to the rest of the escort to wait at the loading gate with the War Rig.

“Too bad they won't let us through the loading gate,” Coil eased off his goggles, but kept his dust wrap on. “It would save time and trouble.”

“Everyone who enters Bartertown enters it by foot,” Furiosa said. “It's the law. At least we can leave from any gate.” 

“Leave Bartertown any way you like,” Morsov quoted the old joke with a wry grin, pointing at his boots. “On your feet, off your feet, or without your feet.”

Awkwardly wrestling her goggles off one-handed, Furiosa glanced at the crowd lined up outside the entry gate. All around were those travelers of the waste, merchants, ferals, lone road warriors, wandering mystics, even a few Traders. There were even a few Doctors and Scientists, though she could not tell which they were, only that their status was marked by their dusty white coats that gleamed dully in the sun, advertising their trade as they waited like all the others to pay homage at the court of Aunty Entity.

All roads led to the five gates of Bartertown, and all peoples of the world were drawn to it, whether to do business and trade or to seek their fortune. But there were those other matters that drew people too, other reasons like finding a lost brother, seeking news of a fallen sister, or a last ditch attempt to find a stolen child.

Outside the gates, hawkers and squatters lined the makeshift market that had sprung up around the long queue to get in. Beyond them was a vast expanse of tents and corrugated tin shacks surrounding the gates of Bartertown, the homes of those poor wretches who could not afford the entry fee and made their living selling anything thy could sell to keep on going another day.

“Water! Water! Drawn straight from the aquifer! No preservatives, just pure water!”

“You wanna dog? I got dogs. Four legs, three legs, all healthy, ready to guard, ready to fight, ready to ride, cheap to feed and water, ready to guard, ready to...”

“Boy for sale! No lumps, no bumps! All ten fingers and ten toes! Weaned and toilet trained, won't bite! Boy for sale!”

Furiosa's eyes narrowed as she looked away and headed into the queue.

Quickly, her War Boys followed, moving as a unit. 

Tall and broad-shouldered, hand resting lightly on his top belt, Coil stood close by, standing at her left as she was flanked on her right by Morsov.

As she walked through the crowd, people stared at her, whispering behind their hands. Men and women alike leered at her as she walked by, and she wondered why.

Suddenly, a hand darted out to grab her, reaching for her chest, but then before the stranger could touch her, Coil turned and slammed the man to the ground, giving him a vicious kick.

Furiosa blinked and raised her hand, catching Coil's eye, and Coil stepped back, away from the man who stumbled to his feet, cursing, before disappearing into the crowd.

Never having heard those words before, they meant nothing to Furiosa.

The crowd backed up. Through the stink and tumult, she could hear them talking, could hear their derision and their laughter, the only weapons they had against the War Boys.

 

“Naked!”

“Idiot should have known better than to mess with anyone rollin with War Boys. She's important if she's cruisin with them.”

“Brothels don't take girls with metal hands. You can tell she ain't here for that. Serves 'em right.”

“Looking's not touching!”

“They take girls away, dontchaknow, they don't bring girls out less they're War Boys.”

“Did you say imperator? Wow, didn't know they made women imperators. Makes sense; they haven't made a regular run in a while. Something must have happened back home. Change of guard, change of pace, change of rulers, that's the rule of the world. Everything changes, one way or another. Say, you think they got toppled by a bunch of ladies out there? Like them ladies that come through every now and then, you know, the riders that bring the--”

“Ha! Just look at that. Citadel don't have any modesty, runnin around half-naked and freezing. Just a bunch of ostentatious showoffs. We cover up around here, even if we eat every day.”

“It makes me cold just looking at them.”

“No child, don't admire them. They aren't better than ferals if they waste their food energy on being cold. What a terrible waste of kilocals. You tell the world you're rich by getting fat, not by wasting k-cals shivering. Put your jacket back on, dear, it's too cold to copy that nonsense.”

“They think that the white stuff counts as clothes. They're either poor or stupid.”

“Oi, look! Those kids are just a bunch of slaves like the rest of us. At least they do it with a lot more style. Look at these rags of mine! I'd trade my life to be a War Boy. I hear they eat two times a day.”

“That's a fool's dream, ya lousy bum. Ain't no one who ain't a master eats that many times in a day.”

 

Confused, Furiosa glanced at herself.

It had been seasons upon seasons since her bodice had died a warrior's death, torn and worn beyond repair despite best efforts to sew and patch it. She had worn the full white since then; when did that start? Furiosa thought back and realized it had to have been when she was still a Lancer, thousands of days ago. Since then, she had been to Bartertown and had even gone through the entry and there was never any hint of this treatment, any memory of being ogled or harassed.

But then she had worn the white, and Furiosa noticed how people looked away from her crew, their eyes shying away from the War Boys as if afraid to even touch their gaze to the whitened skin for more than a glance.

But that didn't stop them from staring at her, naked and sallow-pale from years of wearing the white, not nearly as darkly tanned as a long-standing Imperator. 

“Nice tits!” A man shouted, so deep in the crowd that he was safe from the roving eyes of her War Boys.

It started off a wave of laughter, of catcalls and whistles, of shouts of disapproval and scolding. Furiosa flushed, mortified, suddenly acutely aware of how vulnerable she was uncovered.

Hesitant, afraid to show fear, she brought up her right hand over her bare breasts, but then her War Boys closed in tighter around her blocking her from view.

They wound their way into the entry, the jostling crowds parting for them.

 

They were funneled into a narrow corridor, walled with rusting iron and stone. Imperial Guards stood about, men and women alike looking fierce in their tall headdresses and heavy armour, some wearing tall banners advertising various slogans, drawn with the ancient portrait of Aunty Entity the Great, founder of Bartertown, her stern eyes watching over the comings and goings of all the people of the world.

_Bust a deal and face the wheel_.

_Piss = Power_.

The Guards eyed the War Boys, and the War Boys eyed the Guards.

Intensely aware of her nakedness, Furiosa resolved to ignore it, pretending as if nothing were the matter even as she could feel the eyes of the Imperial Guards lingering on her. Holding herself upright with stiff dignity, she entered with her escort.

At the sun-baked checkpoint, Furiosa showed the metal chit that served as the War Rig Imperator's pass into Bartertown, marked with the number of escort War Boys she was allowed to bring in. They paid by the season for the privilege of the pass, a price that had been negotiated by Imperator Acosta, and she briefly wondered how she would manage any new negotiations before they were processed quickly without a fuss, something that not everyone was entitled to. The group of merchants after her haggled and bargained with the Collector who sat in the shade of an umbrella, abacus in hand, surrounded by guards who took the goods for the entry fee from him.

Furiosa headed for a stone hut with narrow barred windows and glanced at the window and the sign that hung from it, painted rusting metal hung up on hooks.

_Park your weapons here_.

She took a deep breath and faced the Assayer with a steady gaze. Back at the escort she had argued it out with the Ace; he had exhorted her to leave the arm with the War Rig, just as all the other War Boys had left their guns, knives, and crossbows back with the escort; she couldn't risk losing it to the weapons checkpoint. Even if they gave it back, it might be damaged or have lost parts and the amount of work that had been put into it made it too valuable to be broken by some clumsy, heavy-handed bureaucrat.

But she could not face Bartertown naked, maimed and half-broken.

“We don't have any weapons on us,” Furiosa said coolly.

“Let's see that big metal thing of yours,” the Assayer narrowed her eyes, glaring at Furiosa from behind the safety of her stone counter. “Looks like an augmented weapon.”

“It's just a hand,” Furiosa said.

“Leave your weapons here,” the Assayer said, her voice slightly bored. “It's the law.”

At the sound of the woman's voice, a few Imperial Guards trickled closer, their tufted headdresses swaying with their steps.

“It's just a hand.” And swallowing her pride, Furiosa carefully unbuckled it, to show them the stump of her arm.

“Oh.” The Assayer blinked quizzically, leaning closer to have a look with the impunity of a person protected by steel and stone and guards. “Well then, carry on.”

Buckling her hand on again, Furiosa made her way into Bartertown.

 

There was a place Furiosa remembered from her past visits; they had often been sent here to buy various articles of clothing for the Immortan's wives.

It reminded her of other things too, memories of a life in the Immortan's Tower that she didn't want to recall, but there weren't many options for fabric around Bartertown, at least not that she knew of. Not like growing up, where the plants yielded so many different colors that the spinners and weavers could make such beautiful patterns. Here, there were less options; the fabric that was dyed was dyed solid and colors were limited.

Leaving most of the retinue outside, she entered the tailor's shop with Coil. Inside, it was musty, warm, and she could already feel herself untensing, safely hidden from view by the stone. Fabrics hung from the stone walls, and she looked around, amazed by the variety, by the colors, even limited as they were.

There was a green fabric that drew her eye, and she stepped forward, hand reaching for it but then a voice clucked.

“Looking only, unless you buy.” An older woman said sternly, and Furiosa recalled that this must be the tailor.

“How much for a shirt made from that?”

“Including material and work?” The tailor quoted a price that made her eyes water.

“Maybe...I should ask what I can afford.” Furiosa sighed. She thought it through and gave the tailor the number of food bars she could afford; she thought that on her Imperator's salary, it should have been enough.

“Nothing,” the tailor said. “Sorry, I run a business here, not a charity. It'll have to be double that for what you want, even with the cheapest undyed stuff.”

Coil spoke up: “Boss, we can make a whip-round through the boys and easily raise the price.”

“No, we can't stay that long.” Furiosa shook her head. “It would have to be when everyone meets back at the War Rig, and then there's loading to be done...” But in truth, she didn't want to be in debt already on her first run, not to her new crew. “We don't have time. Let's go.”

“Momma.” A young, woman with honey-dark hair peeped out from behind a curtain. “I don't think we need to send them away empty-handed. That's not a lot but it's still a good price.”

“I told you to stay out of sight! There are War Boys here. We're surrounded by them. You know what that means!” The tailor whispered sharply, and Furiosa winced.

The tailor's daughter ducked behind the curtain, but her voice remained.

“Why not make her a shirt out of the undyed scraps? Look at her; War Boy or not, poor thing's probably half-frozen from the wind, and she can't walk around town looking like that. There's not much we can do with the scraps anyway, but it's probably enough for a shirt.”

The tailor paused, doing the math in her head, before nodding begrudgingly.

“Sit over there and I'll take your measurements. But payment up front.”

“Thank you.” Furiosa drew out a promissory note and wrote in the number of food bars.

 

After walking around the tailor's shop once to check all the points of entry, Morsov sent the other two War Boys around back to watch the back door with orders to report if the Imperator or Coil were seen leaving that way. The shop was small and defensible, so he had confidence that the four War Boys could handle the Imperator's security readily.

He glanced into the narrow window, too small for a person to sneak in. Inside, through the crackled and pitted glass, Furiosa was negotiating with the tailor. Morsov watched them for a long moment, deciding that this was because he needed to make sure the tailor was of no threat and not because she looked gravely beautiful in the cold blue light streaming in through the windows. 

Morsov looked around the dusty lane. In the inner city closest to the plateau, Bartertown was relatively quiet without the unruly crowds around the Tomi Caf and the central market or the entrance gate. Here the streets were mostly empty, but for occasional shopkeepers and laborers going about their daily routines and the everpresent Imperial Guards who patrolled the streets, keeping an eye on the War Boys even as the War Boys kept an eye on them.

A barefoot child ran swiftly past, a messenger from the looks of it, barely giving the War Boys a glance.

“Here, Morsov. Come sit with me,” Stonker said, patting the stone step of the front stoop as he sat down himself, his tools jingling as he settled down to wait. Stonker adjusted his top belt as he sat down, and the motion caught Morsov's eye, briefly filling him with unworthy thoughts.

Morsov paused, glancing around the streets, looking for trouble, before sitting down, settling his tools as he did so, so that he could sit more comfortably.

“Can see why you're in charge of the security detail. You're very thorough.” Stonker bumped Morsov playfully with his shoulder.

“It's nothing,” Morsov said, embarrassed by the praise, and he stared down at his dusty boots for a moment before making sure to look around for signs of trouble. “Just the next most ranking War Boy here after Coil.”

“Glad I was given the honor of being part of the Imperator's personal escort. Did you pull strings for me?” Stonker teased, and Morsov ducked his head, his face feeling hot. 

“No, no. They just wanted a big bruiser.”

Stonker laughed, quickly stifling the sound in the folds of his black dust wrap. “A big bruiser? Is that what you think I am?”

“Shhh! We're supposed to be on guard duty.” Hesitantly, Morsov nudged Stonker with his shoulder.

“Well, a big bruiser like me is going to keep anyone from thinking twice about attacking the Imperator.” Stonker sat up a little straighter, squaring his shoulders playfully.

“Stonker...” Morsov felt his ears go hot. The War Boy set his hand on Morsov's shoulder, and Morsov felt a shiver go through him at the touch.

“Still, I have you to thank for this. So many Bartertown runs and this is the first time I've been chosen for the Imperator's detail.”

“No, that wasn't me,” Morsov said, glad for the change of topic, shrugging off Stonker's hand. “Someone else picked, either the Ace or Coil or Furiosa. Don't really know who is the chooser that choosed you. But this is my first time inside Bartertown. Did runs before but stayed with the car the whole time on duty. Driver usually got pulled for the Imperator's detail.”

Stonker met Morsov's eyes, surprised. “Thought you'd been in here before lots of times. You seem to know your way around.”

“No, no, just studied the map and memorized the routes, in and out.” Morsov paused, not sure if he should say anything, but then decided it wasn't much of a secret. “Later Ace wants me to come with him to do the filth trade and Furiosa wants me to be in the guard. So I get to come in twice today. But later it's just to watch and not to be on duty.”

“Does this mean you're going down to the Underworld?”

“Yeah.” Morsov made a face as though he could already smell the stench of human waste; he had heard the stories. “He wants me to come along to look at pups.”

Stonker nodded, and seeing Morsov's expression, quickly changed the topic. “Come to think of it, I've never been in the inner city before today, though I've heard about it from other War Boys.”

“It's where the rich folks live and work,” Morsov said, repeating back what he had heard. “Merchants and tradesfolk, artisans. Skilled labor. Folks who have the specialized jobs, not just the ordinary people of the central market.”

“So not like us, modular War Boys who can be slotted into any job around,” Stonker said thoughtfully. “Though maybe we do have some specialties. After all, most every War Boy I know has some other side trade like body mods or building toys.”

“Not like this.” Morsov gestured with his thumb, pointing to the tailor's shop behind him. “Think all they do is clothes here. Inside it's all cloth, lots of different kinds in different colors, hung up for the buyer.”

“Like the armory boys that run the sewing machines and do the mending and inventory the trousers and boots and blankets?

“Maybe not. Those boys get called up to the muster on harvest days. And make extra doing small jobs around the warren.”

“Say, speaking of which, what are you planning on buying with your extra?” Stonker asked.

Morsov shrugged. “Don't need anything.”

“There must to be something you want.”

“Nah.” Morsov's hand absently touched his valuables pocket, feeling the hard edges of the music box. “Got everything I want.”

The corners of Stonker's mouth turned up in a little smile. Glancing around, he pressed his ear to the door of the tailor's shop and then drew back, leaning over Morsov's shoulder.

His touch was warm, and it sent a strange chill of sensation through Morsov's body. 

“It's been a while since I heard that tune. Would you play it for me?”

 

Furiosa took off her hand, unbuckling the belts around her waist, and sighed with pleasure; it was heavy and the weight of it pulled muscles and ligaments out of alignment. Unencumbered, Furiosa felt as light as a bird in flight, soaring high above the waste.

“The brace too,” the tailor said. “It'll interfere with the measuring.”

Furiosa struggled with the laces, biting her lip, but then Coil stepped forward, untying and untangling the cords, helping her undo the corset that supported her back, supporting the weight of her mechanical hand.

“Thanks.” She sighed as it all came off, relieved of the burden, but there was a vulnerability to it that made her anxious, that made her breaths come a little faster, even though logically she knew she was safe with Coil standing guard by her side and with a coterie of War Boys led by Morsov outside.

Nervous, flinching minutely from the shock of a stranger's touch, she let the tailor make the measurements.

“You War Boys can sit over there in the corner. Try to keep out of trouble; we're losing business as it is what with your lot loitering outside.” The tailor scowled and ducked behind the safety of the counter.

They sat on the ground, in a quiet corner of the shop. Furiosa stared at the hung fabrics, at the stone walls, at the fine cracks in the masonry, unaccustomed to being alone with her thoughts for so long.

But then she found herself looking at Coil's lax hand, resting on his knee, at the ridges of bone and tendon that ran along the length of the back of his hand. He was sitting so still that she could see the flutter of pulse along a vein that ran through his wrist. She could not help but look at the ragged braided bracelet that was worn to almost nothing, repaired and resewn so many times it was almost more thread than cloth. Once it had been a dust wrap, her dust wrap.

Furiosa turned her head, looking away. Her back and her neck hurt; fidgeting, she tried not to rub at it; she didn't want anyone to know, especially not him, but it was hard to sit still. She twisted her back one way and then the other, trying to ease some of the knots of tension that built up from having the hand on for nearly three days straight.

“You're hurting, aren't you?” Coil asked softly.

Furiosa hesitated, but there was no way of lying to him. “Yes.” She reached up with her right hand to rub at her left shoulder, but then his hand closed over hers.

“Here, let me.” Coil gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I can do it.”

“No, I'm fine.”

“The problem's on both sides, Driver, and I can reach where you can't.”

The old nickname made tears prickle her eyes, but she didn't know where they were from, only that suddenly she realized that she had missed him and the closeness they used to have together. Why was it that they had grown so far apart? The reasons suddenly seemed petty and arbitrary, and she clasped his hand lightly. Coil gently brushed her hand aside, and dug his fingers in, kneading muscles firmly, easing up when she tensed from pain.

Furiosa sighed, biting back a moan of pleasure as he carefully worked the knots out of her neck, her back, nothing indicating her relief but her breaths grown ragged.

It was hard to remember when she had felt this good; she had been doing exercises to strengthen her muscles so she could use the hand, but there was only so much that could be done.

“Driver, you're all a mess back here.” Coil murmured.

“Can't help it. One wheel short means poor alignment and my new wheel's mismatched for the set. I'm...I'm just lucky I didn't get trashed.”

Coil's hands stopped for a moment. He gripped her shoulders tight, his breath warm beside her ear, speaking softly in that shop whisper they all knew how to speak in. “I know. I'm lucky too. When you were poorly, I...”

“I know.” Furiosa said too quickly, not wanting to recall those long days of pain and fear. “I'm glad you're here. This has been hard...so hard to do alone.”

“You're not doing it alone,” Coil said. “You have Ace, you have Dart, Tran, Morsov...”

“And you.”

“Of course. Always. You'll always have me.” Coil sighed, and his hands went back to work. Soon enough the pain began to recede until the worst of it seemed merely a memory.

 

The metal was cold in Morsov's hands as he turned the handle of the music box. There seemed to be a brief moment of hushed silence and then the music played faintly, barely audible over the hum of the great city of Bartertown.

He and Stonker leaned in close to hear it, the bare skin of their heads touching lightly.

Though the pleasure of the music left him almost faint with longing, he was not a fool and Morsov glanced up to see a small child lingering just beyond arm's reach, curious as to what the two War Boys were doing.

Morsov kept his head down and kept turning the handle of the music box, but kept his eyes on the child.

“We have company,” he said softly, and Stonker looked up.

Wild-haired and wild-eyed, dressed in dust-colored rags, the child skittered back, staying as far away from them as possible.

“It's okay.” Morsov put away the music box and held up his hands. “We won't hurt you.”

The child gave him a skeptical look and backed up, disappearing around the smooth-plastered corner of a mud-brick building into a shadowed alley.

Morsov winked to Stonker, and stood up. Carefully, he pulled a food bar out of his food pocket and unwrapped it from its clean cloth. He took a bite, a nibble off a corner, to show that it was edible, and then set it down with the cloth on the ground, before walking back deliberately and sitting down.

“Trying to catch a new War Pup?” Stonker asked, as he put his arm around Morsov.

“Nah. Child should run free.” Morsov leaned against Stonker briefly, before shrugging him off, remembering his duties.

“A waste of a bar,” Stonker said, shaking his head. “Pup's probably long gone by now.” 

But then the child darted out and in a quick flurry of running footsteps, grabbed both the bar and the cloth before disappearing down the alleyway. 

“A waste of a bar and a good shop cloth,” Morsov grinned, and he tilted his head back, his palms pressed to the rough stone.

Above, the iron gray sky, threaded by thin wisps of black and white smoke drawn across it from the artisans, the armorers, the smelters; all the little shops all around Bartertown that sold everything the world had to offer. 

“Look, Stonker. It's clearing up a little.”

 

The tailor's footsteps woke her from her doze; somehow she had drifted off against Coil's shoulder. 

Furiosa blinked; she had been dreaming, but as consciousness became more clear, the dream slipped from her grasp, leaving her with only a vague sense of its emotional resonance, a feeling of warmth and comfort, of security. Quickly, she drew away from Coil and stood up.

The tailor gave her the folded shirt, and she shook it out, tugging it on, glad she could do at least this without help.

“We'd make you another full sleeve, but there weren't any scraps big enough that could do the work,” the tailor explained. “Another piece of cloth would cost more because we'd have to cut into a bolt...”

“No, this is fine.” Furiosa said, fingering the little half-formed sleeve of the right-hand side, stroking the pale fabric. “Thank you. I'll send one of my War Boys to deliver the price; you don't have to come pick it up.”

“No, I already sent my man to get it and he's back already.” The tailor's eyes narrowed, and it took Furiosa a moment to realize that the tailor wanted only for Furiosa and her retinue to be on their way.

Furiosa shook her head.

“We don't mean any harm.”

“Please just finish and-- And of course we look forward to having your business in the future,” the tailor said, as politely as she could, though Furiosa could see the fear in the woman's eyes. “We have appointments that can't come in on account of your boys,” the woman said apologetically, afraid of giving offense.

“Sorry.”

“Don't be sorry...just...” The tailor gestured helplessly, as if to shoo them out, and retreated behind the counter.

Furiosa picked up the corset with a sigh, her left arm moving to take the other side out of habit, though it took her a brief moment to remember that she had no hand.

“Let me help you with that,” Coil said. Taking the other side of the corset, he laced her into it, tightening the laces for her as she exhaled, tying them off neatly. She put the hand on herself; she didn't need anyone's help for that.

Buckling the belts on tightly, Furiosa winced at the weight of the heavy metal hand. It didn't feel like much right now, but given time it would slowly begin to drag her down.

Dressed and girt against the world, Furiosa made her way out, Coil by her side. 

*****

The central market bustled with activity as people from all the world mixed and mingled, a buzzing hum of commerce pierced by the sounds of vendors hawking their wares, a testament to Bartertown's water wealth and prime position on the trade routes of the waste. Here, laborers carrying stinking heaps of cured skins to his master's leatherwork shop, flanked by guards. There, a stall offering tattoos, and one knew the artisan was famous, for he was heavy and fat, his prosperity obvious to all. Everywhere people haggling, bartering and buying, showing letters of credit writ onto paper, metal, or stone, everyone browsing and perusing all sorts of goods, human and otherwise..

A young man wearing no more than a wisp of sheer fabric that tangled around his slender shoulders walked through the crowds, and looking down Furiosa noticed that his footprints stamped out the words “Follow me” in the dust. A black-clad woman, fresh out of the waste with ochre dust still staining her boots and riding leathers, the smell of guzzoline clinging on her hands followed, winking to her friends, heading into the brothels.

“That's new.” Coil's voice drew her attention from the cacaphony, and he pointed out a stall offering brands. “Don't recall ever seeing that before.”

A brawny young woman was inside, an Imperial Guard from the looks of her leathers, and she was receiving the mark of the moon wheel between her shoulderblades, her bronzed sun-burnished skin shuddering with the pain.

“New fashions come and go in Bartertown,” Furiosa said, glancing at her escort, and it seemed to her that they were no longer as useful as they seemed when she first arrived at the gates of Bartertown. Cinched and armored against the world, suddenly it felt like overkill to have so many War Boys following her every step and she wondered why she had let the Ace talk her into bringing a full escort when she had always gone into Bartertown with just one other War Boy in the past.

Coil's eyes lingered on Morsov, but Morsov wasn't looking; he was pointing out the looming sign of the Tomi Caf to a tall War Boy. 

“Everything changes,” Coil said thoughtfully.

Furiosa found herself smiling just a little bit to herself. It was hard to remember when they had last been so easy with each other; they fell into the old habit of chatting as they walked through the streets of Bartertown heading through the central market, though not the way they would have in the past, arms linked in easy camaraderie. 

Furiosa felt a wistful pang of sadness when she realized that those days were gone for good; as Imperator, some of the closeness she had with her fellow War Boys was no longer allowed. It would not do to show too much favor for one War Boy over another; that was something she had never particularly personally liked about Imperator Acosta and besides, to her it seemed doubly dangerous: now that all eyes were on, especially the ever-present eyes of the Immortan's Tower, she had to be especially careful about how she tread.

Even now she glanced at the escort every now and again, making sure that they weren't watching her too carefully. Coil, to his credit, had like any good Lancer picked up the unspoken signal from his Driver and followed her lead, careful to be discreet, keeping an eye on the escort boys as well. Fortunately, Bartertown was a wealth of sights and sounds and the War Boys were young, mostly inexperienced in running in the Imperator's escort. Briefly, she wondered if the Ace had done this on purpose to buy her a little space and then it made her wonder why he thought she'd need space.

“I like it, Driver.” Coil's shoulder bumped her gently, and it shook her out of her reverie.

“Hmm?”

“That's a pretty cover for your chassis. Maybe you'll start a trend,” Coil smiled, admiring the asymmetric lines of the blouse. “Makes me want to get something like this too.”

“An expensive trend,” Furiosa shook her head. “I don't want the crew to think the worse of me, that I'm living too high on the rig.”

“They'll understand.” Coil said reasonably. “And if they don't, who cares? Imperators have less restrictions on what they can wear.”

“Half-life Nobles too, to a point.”

“Yes, that's true. Hey, is this new? I don't remember seeing this last time around.” Coil paused, peering down a lane. “This is new.”

“Hmm?” And then Furiosa looked, and saw what he was looking at.

Clothing of all sorts fluttered in the wind, pinned to protective sheets of tarp that rattled loudly. Merchants were chattering; all around, people were making deals in what she remembered as an dusty, empty lane in the past.

“Worth a look?” Coil asked with a wink, and Furiosa grinned. Glancing around, making sure the boys of the escort were too distracted to notice, they ducked down the lane together like two War Pups hiding from their trainer.

 

Some of these clothes were very old indeed, salvaged from deep under the waste in pockets of material that occasionally surfaced, and it would create a tiny boom of goods for a brief window of time, creating little markets that sprang up along empty lanes that often only stayed in business for a hundred days or less, or until the pocket of goods ran out. 

It was easy to tell when such goods were found; there would be piles of identical items, made to specification, nearly identical in their making. Furiosa tried to imagine it; how many Aqua-Cola slaves would it take to weave and to stitch so many items so precisely? Even with machines, it must have taken an army. It was impossible to guess.

Fabrics fluttered all around in an assortment of colors, colors of the type that only the lost past could create and Furiosa found herself stopped to stare at a rust-orange shirt, remembering that this was the color that red would slowly fade to in the harsh sunlight of the waste. And what it meant to wear that color, woven into the threads of a scarf, a mark of pride that one was loved and would be loved, that even as the color faded, the love remained. And how it would be to come about that rust orange, to be old, toughened, and unafraid; a protector of the people, strong from years of running the night roads, following the moon and the stars, running the salt that gave them life.

“Driver. Driver?”

“Hmm?” Furiosa turned to Coil.

“What's so interesting? You've been staring at that shirt for a long time. Looks kind of like the sunset on a dusty day, doesn't it?”

“Yes, it does. I mean, it's nothing. Nothing. Just...thinking.” Furiosa wandered deeper into the lane, Coil by her side.

 

In the end Furiosa paid too much, traded without haggling or thinking, giving up the last of her tools from her Revhead days for the scarf. It was nearly identical to the black ones she and Coil wore, but it was red.

A deep, solid red, which would not have been appropriate; the scarf had to be something one wove or embroidered themselves, with the intricate designs that had been passed down through the generations, stylized flowers and plants that no longer grew on this earth, or perhaps geometric figures, blocks or stripes. The working would take a long time; sometimes it took up to a year or more, just for a scarf, and she felt like she was cheating buying one like this, already made and not even to the right specifications. 

But she couldn't help it; she knew she couldn't leave Bartertown without it when she saw it, and when the transaction was over and the crimson fabric pooled in her hands, a sense of deep longing went through Furiosa, and the loneliness that welled up inside of her came so strongly so that for a moment, her vision swam with tears that she blinked away before anyone could notice.

“That's going to look very nice with your new shirt,” Coil suggested, and she glanced up at him.

It was as though she had never quite seen him before, not clearly. He was older now; they both were, and briefly she remembered the first time she saw him without the white, so long ago, his dark hair grown out in a soft fuzz around his head. Then he was barely more than a boy, but Coil was now in the prime of manhood with all his strength, and there in the corners of his eyes and along his mouth were etched the deepening lines cut by time, where the white creased into the seams. A full-life with no lumps, someday Coil would be as old as the Ace if not older, toughened from years of working the Fury Road, arms clinging strong to the side of the War Rig, fit and agile.

Furiosa imagined them together, older, still riding together, their black dust wraps sun-faded to gray, but something about that image didn't seem right. It was then she knew it meant that she could not wear the red herself. A gift like this was not meant for oneself; red was always meant for another.

So why had she bought it? Furiosa wondered, and then suddenly realized that perhaps it was telling her something that she didn't know herself.

“Lancer, let me see your dust wrap,” Furiosa smiled.

“Hmm?” But Coil slipped it off, handing it over. Furiosa looped the dusty black cloth around her own neck, and with her own nearly identical dust wrap on, it was hard to tell that she was wearing two.

“You'll look better in this than me.” And gesturing for Coil to dip his head, Furiosa looped the red scarf around his neck herself, her fingers brushing his cheeks as she slid the fabric over his head.

“Driver, this is too much...” And she could almost see the blush under the white, despite the heavy coat that he had put on for their appearance in Bartertown.

“No. It's not too much at all. It's the least I can do for you, Lancer. For years of working crew. For this, years ago.” Furiosa touched her black dust wrap, tangled around her neck with his, and then closed her hand around his right wrist. “Besides, this bracelet of yours won't last forever. When it finally breaks, you'll have this. A proper present finally, ages later.”

“What're the others going to say?” Flustered, Coil touched the red scarf hesitantly but she could tell he was pleased with it, and the color looked sharp on him, shiny and chrome.

“That Half-life Nobles have less restrictions on what they wear than the rank and file,” Furiosa winked, and there, hidden in the shadow of a merchant's awning, they embraced briefly.

Furiosa held him tightly with her left hand, cradling the curve of his shoulder.

*****

Quickly they rejoined the escort, and to their luck, the War Boys had hardly noticed they were gone.

“See, there they are. Probably been here all along. Looks like Coil's been trading. Oi! Coil! Nice dust wrap!” Stonker pointed. “Like how it looks. How much does something like that run?”

“Wasn't too bad,” Coil grinned, touching the folds of the red fabric. He caught Furiosa's eye; they had already discussed how to bring it up with the others. “Got a decent price for it.”

“Looks good,” Stonker said again, admiring the cloth. “Are we allowed to wear red?”

“Sure,” Furiosa said, spontaneously. “Why not? Black, red, yellow,” she counted the colors off on her fingers. 

“The colors of the War Lords.”

“Maybe not yellow. Too bright, catches too much attention,” Furiosa said, correcting herself. 

“Right? Don't give a Bandit a free shot at your face!”

“Yellow's too hard to keep clean anyway.”

“And it might give someone the wrong idea, that you want to work for Gastown. But a dark red like this is almost black and doesn't stick out.”

“Too tall to be a Polecat,” Stonker grinned. “At least I'm safe from that.”

“Same here, but I'd rather not be transferred to another town,” Coil agreed. “That's a hungry, thirsty life.”

Furiosa's mouth tightened when she remembered that sometimes Half-life Nobles were given away as gifts. So she had to raise an augmented crew, she realized, and soon, to protect her core crew.

“Red's a good color,” Morsov added. “Keeps the blood from showing.” 

“Good point, I didn't-”

“Hey, what's that?” 

The crowd seemed to suddenly bubble and seethe with noise, murmurs quickly boiling over into cheering as people seemed to shift back in waves along the wide central lane of the crowded marketplace. Soon it was apparent that they were making way for a phalanx of armed Imperial Guards, their black tufted headdresses waving stiffly with each step. Tall and heavily muscled, chosen for their strength and beauty, the men and women of the Imperial Guards marched by, their strong shoulders and lean hips accentuated by their heavy black leather and steel armour.

“Aunty Entity,” Furiosa said, gesturing for the War Boys to step back. They pushed back up against a vendor's stall, Stonker ducking beneath the low-hanging awning and bumping into a rack of clattering silverware. He bent down to keep his head from bumping the top of the stall.

“Is it noon already?” Coil wondered, as he stretched his arm out before Furiosa, gripping Morsov's shoulder to block anyone from even accidentally bumping into her. Morsov caught the signal and did the same, their arms forming a barrier between Furiosa and the roiling crowd before them.

“Prime time for thieves and pickpockets,” Furiosa said dryly, though a jolt of excitement went through her. She had been on the Imperator's detail before, but had never been this close to the procession before, crowded along the main market road through Bartertown.

Past the long trail of guards were the beasts, and Furiosa could not help but gasp in awe at the monsters, great brutish creatures with long forward-pointing chrome-gilded horns harnessed two abreast, led by a pair of tall guards. Even from a distance, Furiosa could quickly estimate that their heads came to just below her shoulders. These massive animals with their smooth black-burnished hides and white stars marking their foreheads were creatures from Before; their ancestors had survived in precarious pockets of wet and fertile lands and had been brought in old days as tribute, bred in Bartertown since. It said much about Bartertown's vast riches when most animals she had ever seen beyond the gates were no bigger than lizards.

Their clopping feet clinked against the stone-paved market road and she glanced down to admire the chrome perfection of their steel-clad hooves, before instinct drew her eye upwards.

Eyes on.

She looked up, and there beneath the shaded canopy of the ox-drawn cart was the pewter gleam of Aunty Entity's regalia, delicate chainmail draping off her long, smooth-limbed figure as brightly as the great cascade of water that flowed down the Immortan's Tower on feast days. She held in her right hand the ancient steel crossbow of her ancestor, Aunty Entity the Great, and in her left, she held a silver sphere that glittered brightly as the sun broke through the clouds.

Raised high, Aunty Entity rode through the crowds, her face calm and serene, and Furiosa found herself puzzled and looked again at Aunty's face. Was not Aunty Entity older? She had been to court before with Imperator Acosta; she remembered Aunty to be an older woman with crowsfeet in the corner of her eyes. But this looked like someone else altogether.

All around, those close enough to the procession touched the stripped out Rolls Royce chassis that formed the base of the cart, hands reaching out reverently to touch the well-polished vehicle, the black paint worn down to chrome from ages and ages of the touch of thousands. Shouts rang out as the procession passed, the guards calling for right of way, and intermingled with those shouts were cries for justice, for blessings, for healing and for prosperity. Furiosa could see that behind the cart followed another phalanx.

As the procession swayed through the crowd, the cart swung awkwardly to its right and the guards shouted, pushing the beasts to straighten their path. The cart moved closer to the War Boys, who stepped back as it lumbered by. On a whim, Furiosa reached out past the curtain of arms shielding her and touched the car as it passed. A chip of black paint came off in her hand, and she glanced at it before dusting it off her fingertips. A sharp-eyed child grabbed the chip of paint off the ground and disappeared into the crowd, crowing with delight.

At that very moment, Aunty Entity looked down and to her right just as Furiosa looked up.

Eyes on.


	11. Chapter 11

Furiosa looked up at the great Loading Gate as they walked out of Bartertown. It was open for business now, so the great stone-filled vehicles on their hydraulic-driven tracks had been pushed apart, just enough to let merchants with their permanent passes to come to the gate to check the War Rig's listed inventory and to make their claims. Heavily armed Imperial Guards stood at their posts on top of the great gates, keeping an eye out for trouble, ready at any sign of danger to shut the gates. 

When it came time for the goods to be moved, the gates would be opened further, but judging from the tracks, the gates could be opened so wide that it made Furiosa wonder: What kind of large cargo were the people in Bartertow expecting?

By the time she made it back to the War Rig with her escort, a hot meal had been prepared and was waiting for them, food bars crumbled into tin cups and reconstituted with mushroom-scented water.

“How was it?” The Ace pulled the capped tin cup off the black hood of the War Rig where it had been keeping warm, swaddled in a clean shop cloth.

“Fine. Unremarkable.” Safe back among the crowd of War Boys, Furiosa began unbuckling her arm, opening the cab and setting it down carefully on the Driver's seat before shutting the door. 

“Can't be too unremarkable,” the Ace said, eyeing her new shirt. “Paid off a hefty note from your stash of bars not too long ago.”

“Just a little trading,” Furiosa said lightly, cutting off further discussion. She sat down in the shade of the War Rig, cupping the warm container of her food in the crook of her left arm, and prised off the lid. “Smells good.” 

“Made it myself,” the Ace said, sitting down beside her, easing off his goggles. “Got the order of business settled down while you were gone.” He held up a sheaf of bound papers with the current inventory, marked with the names of the merchants they dealt with. There were many such records stowed up in the front gunner's nest, tracking many trade runs over the ages. “Merchants'll start coming by in a few hours once they get their goods ready. We gotta clear up our outstandings and then we can get to trading for true.”

“How much are we looking at in terms of profit?”

“Depends on the volatiles. A-C and guzzoline, sugar and milk, beans 'n seeds, paper, that's usually steady trading unless the weather's gone bad or someone's gone and dug up a new well. Stuff like woolies or scented oils might crash or dip dependin on who's hungry for what or who's producin what this season. Bartertown trends run fast; we can't hardly keep up.”

“I heard in town that an artisan is paying premium for walnut shells again. Someone's been grinding them up for polish or dye, I don't remember exactly.”

“Hmm, good to know. Lucky thing we got a kilo or two that tucked in the tanker. Sometimes it sells fast, sometimes not at all. Hauling it's always a gamble, doesn't always pay off.”

They watched as the rest of their crew settled down to eat, chatting in the warmth of the sun.

 

Furiosa finished her food, rinsing the cup with water and drinking down the lees. The Ace took the cleaned cup from her, hanging it off his belt. 

“Any other prices you remember?”

Furiosa rattled off the prices she had seen listed around Bartertown for food stuff, for luxury items and other goods she noticed. “Any more, you'll have to ask someone else.”

“Right. Will ask Morsov once we get going, and I'll give it a look myself once we're in.” The Ace closed the rough paper ledger and handed it to her. “Better get my boys and go if I wanna be back in time for the unloading.”

“Before you go, I saw that the waste truck's already been cleaned out.” 

“They work fast. Got the promissory note from the Underworld agent right here.” The Ace patted his valuables pocket. “With that and notes from previous runs, thinking to buy one good pup at least.”

“Don't we have enough already?”

“We got pups comin out our ears,” the Ace's lips twisted in a wry smile. “Rumor has it that we'll be asked to get more, buy 'em by the pack from a wholesaler, only the orders from above haven't come down the line yet. Not all of the ones in the cohort now are gonna stay with us forever, specially since those little ones that don't grow big enough to ride high get sent to Gastown for Polecats. Always worth lookin for a future fightin War Boy. 'Sides, farm's producing plenty for a few more little mouths to eat.”

“So one boy then?”

“If we wanted to, we could get maybe as many as three, dependin on quality.”

“Three? Really, that much?” What's our rating these days?”

“Triple-A, of course. Like it's been for ages.” The Ace's lips moved in a wry quirk. “Even our filth is prime.”

 

“You know you can't go in armed.”

Reclining in the Lancer's basket like a War Lord, Slit gave Nux a withering glare. “Yeah. That's why I'm not going.” 

Nux sighed, leaning against the side of the car. “The Ace came by himself to ask for you,” he said reasonably, ready to lay out a logical argument as to why Slit should go, but before he could continue, Slit cut him off.

“If you think it's so important, then you should go.” But Slit had a screwdriver out already and was fiddling with the blade of his bracer. There was a little ping, and Slit caught the spring before it could fly off, shoving it into a pocket, along with the pin and screws.

“Gonna leave it in the car?”

“No.” Slit slipped the metal blade into a deep tool pocket along his calf. With a pair of pliers he unscrewed the hexagonal nuts that covered the knuckles, dropping them into his pocket one by one along with the short bolts that held them in place.

“You can't bring your weapons. You can't go into Bartertown armed.”

“Yeah. Heard you the first ten times.” Slit removed his knives, and handed them over to Nux one at a time, including the new one that Nux had given him when they were paired.

Slit's eyes gazed past Nux as he put the last blade in Nux's hand, and for a moment, Nux wondered what Slit was distracted by, finding Slit's dark blue eyes unreadable. But then Nux realized that he recognized the expression; it was the same look that Slit had had when they sewed up his face after they brought him back alive from the stinking Bandit encampment.

“You better not lose them,” Slit growled, stirring Nux from his thoughts.

“What...what about your bracer blade?”

“What about it? No one's going to care if I have some useless junk in my pocket.” Slit stayed where he was, stubborn and unmoving, legs dangling from the Lancer's basket.

“Oi, Slit! Time to go!” A harsh voice called out, and looking up, he could see the Ace waving him over.

Slit didn't move.

“Slit. It'll be fine. What's there to worry about? It's just Bartertown. You've been there before...”

With a sharp movement, Slit sat up and hefted himself out of the Lancer's basket, batting away Nux's offered hand. He trudged resentfully through the dust to the waiting support truck.

*****

Medicore. Everything was unremarkable. 

Slit didn't bother to gape and gawk as Morsov did; he had seen this all before. But it had been years upon years; an entire lifetime it seemed, and he found that he remembered things a little differently. New roads cut through the marketplace, roads he had never seen before and when they turned and walked down a lane, it looked strange and unfamiliar until he suddenly remembered it from the memory of a dream.

The scent of dust, of wilted green produce yellowing in the sun. Of the stench of hundreds of unwashed bodies, of rust and iron, rotting cloth and leather and he breathed it all in, knowing those smells from somewhere deep within himself, from a dark place that he had almost forgotten existed.

Was the Thunderdome always so small? Was Aunty Entity's perch always this close to the ground? Were the barflies and the toughs that hung out around the Tomi Caf always so young and foolish looking?

Even the tall buildings he used to climb looked short, comically squat compared to the great looming towers of his memories. But then again, Slit realized, anything compared to the heights which he had been raised to at the Citadel was going to look small.

“...and the slave kennels, they are in the Underworld?” Morsov asked.

“Yeah, they keep 'em out of the way there. Warmer 'n above ground, keeps 'em close to the methane farm so they can use the extra labor and their filth doesn't stray too far from the farm.”

“Practical.” 

“Don't know the half of it. Underworld keeps 'em slaves out of the sun and the wind. Two things that'll surely age out a healthy young slave ahead of their time.” The Ace gestured at the skin of his own torso, roughened and coarsened from years of riding the Fury Road despite his heavy coat of white. 

“All the slaves young, are they young?”

“Nah, not all but a lot of 'em are. Harder to train an old dog.” The Ace gave Morsov's shoulder a fond pat. “Harder to control too. Half-grown pups are easier to handle, small and easier to transport. Easier to catch too, for slavers. But then, not all slaves are captives. Lots are criminals, 'n others, they end up gettin in too much debt payin their way in and and got nothing else to sell but themsel-”

“Ace,” Slit interrupted. “How long is the trade going to take?”

The Ace gave Slit an odd look; it was unlike him to ask questions like this. “Long as it takes. Can't say for sure. If there ain't any good assets, just a few minutes and we're out. If we see a good one, maybe under an hour. If it's harder...well, hopefully it won't be hard. Gotta make it back to the War Rig for trade and loading.”

“Right.” Slit looked away, glaring at some locals who had dared give him a second look. Quickly, he looked away once he realized that he might recognize some of them.

“So what should I be looking for?” Morsov asked.

“You'll see. Just follow my lead. You too, Slit.”

Slit's teeth ground together as they trudged forward, toward the land of darkness below the earth.

 

The stench of the Underworld hit them far before they made their way down the steps into the underground caverns where the ancient methane farm chugged away, having only ever been fully out of service once in its long life, when a feral out of the waste had somehow managed to damage the works. Morsov moved to pull his dust wrap over his nose, but the Ace shook his head; there was after all protocol to visiting the Underworld.

“Keep your face clear. Don't want 'em to think you're raidin after their slaves,” the Ace explained as he showed the promissory note to the guards at the gates.

“Yes, Ace.”

A guard beckoned for them to follow.

Despite himself, Slit found himself gaping at the massive machinery of the methane farm; here was a world he had never explored as a child of Bartertown. From ancient days as the settlement grew the works had been expanded into a giant tangle of pipes and machinery. Some of the piping was massive, much bigger than anything he had ever seen in the Citadel, monumental lengths of pipe that suggested the great crowds that Bartertown could support, the vast amount of light it could waste at night. The rattling cacophony of the machinery settled down to a murmur as they wound their way deep into the Underworld, past the farm to the slave pens.

Like the stench of the Underworld greeting them before they came near it, it was immediately evident that they were headed toward the slave pens. As the sound of the machinery died down, the War Boys could hear the sounds of the captives. Screams, cries, shouted prayers: the sounds of numberless people bewailing their fate.

Slit's hand closed tight around the iron bar of his bracer, his right hand fingering the four empty holes in the tough leather where the bolts had covered the knuckles.

The guard led them to an office; inside, the dealer pored over his books, making notes, running his calculations on a small abacus.

“Well.” The dealer looked up. “What can I do you for?”

“Lookin to buy a slave. We got credit, good credit.” The Ace pulled out the promissory notes, counting them out carefully and immediately the dealer began tallying up the numbers with his abacus.

Slit glanced at Morsov who was watching with great interest and stepped back; this was Half-life Noble business and he had no interest in watching the negotiations.

He turned away, staring up at the shadowed ceiling of the cavern, eyes following the traced lines of the pipes and electrical wiring while quietly humming a tuneless note to himself to drown out the noise of the captive slaves. 

Slit shoved his hands in his pocket, and slowly turned over the hex key between his fingers, feeling the flat edges of the key rotate between the pad of his thumb and forefinger.

 

“Here's one special, we've been keeping him for a good buyer. Course it'll cost a bit more above what your credit's worth but you'll be pleased with your choice. You'll see by its teeth that it's no more than 3000 days old. Look at the size of the bones, the size of the hands and feet. Deep chest, strong haunches...it's gonna grow to be a big one. Clean, straight teeth – oops, careful, this one's a nipper.” The dealer showed them a boy, whose cold blue eyes watched them without fear, without feeling, watching and gauging them as if waiting for someone to slip up, to make some kind of mistake that would give him an advantage.

The Ace sized up the boy as the dealer spoke but then shook his head. “No, no, no. Not a good match. Lookin for one that'd make a good War Boy, someone to live in a community, not a bloodthirsty feral. This one's good for the Thunderdome, or maybe a personal guard for someone who wants a bruiser that don't mind gettin his hands dirty. But we don't take mad dogs into our nest; lookin for something else. Something else more social, less viscous.”

“Then I'm afraid we don't have much,” the dealer said. “Your timing's not so good. We just had a big auction a few days ago and we're low on inventory. Mostly leftovers that we'll end up selling by the lot in a few days. You're welcome to look around and see what we have, see what you like. If you can't find a good boy, we have some adults if you're looking for that. I know we've sold a few to your men in the past...”

The Ace shrugged. “Can't help bad timin. This time we ain't lookin for adults. Mind if we have a look in that pen?” He pointed to a caged cell, iron bars polished smooth from the touch of many small hands.

“Sure, sure. Not much left in there though.” The dealer brought out the keys. 

“Slit.”

“Huh?” Slit looked up from his deep contemplation of his boots. 

“Go in that pen. Go like you mean it.” The Ace gave him the roadsign with his hand. _Go_.

“Yes, Ace.” Slit's eyes narrowed in irritation, but the minute the dealer opened the door he stepped in. One and a half short strides and he was already almost to the back of the pen.

The children scattered around him, some of them stumbling over their shackled feet to get out of his way.

When Slit turned around on his heel, he could see that Ace watched with a sharp eye. 

“What do you want me to do now?” Slit snarled, and immediately a child burst into tears. Another one followed, but their wails were brief as they choked back their tears, tiny hands pressed over their mouths; they knew better than to cry for long.

The Ace gestured for Slit to stay as he looked thoughtfully over the children.

“What are we looking for?” Morsov whispered to the Ace.

“Look at their eyes. The way they hold their bodies. Are they ready to fight to protect themselves? They got the nerve to take Slit on? Confidence? Or are they just scared?” The Ace paused, and then pointed. “Let's see that one, the little pup that's all elbows and knees. And that, the lanky one with the darker face and arms than the rest of his body.”

 

Guards brought the two slaves into a holding pen of slatted metal that came up only about four or five feet, just tall enough to thwart a child from escaping. The Ace followed the dealer in, beckoning for Morsov to follow and Slit watched the proceedings dully, leaning against the metal fencing, his left arm dangling lazily into the pen.

“Ah, this one's small for what you're looking for.” The dealer brought out his measuring stick, and grabbed the slave's shackled ankle, nearly tipping it over. “Look, it's bones are in the bottom quartile for length, probably won't grow as big as you want it to. Not like your boys over here.” He gestured to Morsov and Slit.

“Hmm. What do you want for it?”

“This one?” The dealer quoted a price.

“Let's see its teeth first.”

Slit's mouth tightened and he looked away, and just as he did so he realized the other slave had its fingers on Slit's bracer, and was trying to figure out how to unscrew the metal joins.

The pup's touch was so light that even Slit hadn't felt it, and he wondered how long the pup had been a thief.

“That's soldered on,” Slit said in a flat whisper, without looking down at the pup or moving his arm away. Slit looked over at the Ace who was at it again with one of his training toys, different colored nuts screwed onto a bolt. Absently Slit's thumb slid over the fingertips of his index and middle fingers, as though turning the screws himself. Red, black, steel. Red, steel, black. Black, red, steel... Slit's mouth moved automatically through the possible combinations, remembering his training.

A little tug on the metal bar that crossed his palm. The boy had a firm grip on it and seemed to be trying to pull it off Slit's arm. 

So Slit obliged by raising his arm, and the boy dangled briefly before letting go, landing lightly on his feet, ready to run.

“Oi! What do you think you're doing?” The dealer raised his hand, ready to cuff the boy but the Ace caught the man's wrist.

“Wait, let's see what the pup can do.”

“This one, you won't want this one.” The dealer scowled. “Better to let this one go to the quarries. No good for anything other than hauling rock. I know your type looks for fighters. Good stock, strong and fast. Just look at those legs. But it's gun shy. Previous owner thought he'd train it as a guard but look.” And the man unholstered his pistol, a starter, the kind that made a lot of noise but did no damage, and the boy flinched back violently at the mere sight of it. “See. Damaged goods. Waste of a good slave. Some folks shouldn't be allowed to train a dog much less a boy. Idiot thought he was going to set himself up in the protection racket. Save your notes War Boy, maybe next time you're out in Bartertown you can pick up something better.” 

“Damaged? Maybe you knock off 30 percent and we'll take 'em off your hands,” the Ace said casually. 

“You got no use for a boy like this.” The dealer reholstered his gun, patting his hip. “Can't be a fighter, not if he's afraid of a pea shooter like this.”

“Maybe we eat 'em,” Morsov said with a smirk, repeating the old myth.

“Not much meat on this one,” the dealer said cautiously. “Look here War Boy, we don't sell slaves for meat. This is a place to buy working slaves. Human meat trade is illegal in Bartertown. If you want that you'll have to go somewhere else. Bartertown slaves are all guaranteed free born and--”

“We need some small hands to pick beans on the farm,” the Ace said sternly, cutting the dealer off. “Let's test 'em out and hash out the numbers. Can't spend all day standing around the pens...”

 

“Here.” The Ace tossed Slit what looked to be like a short length of chain that Slit caught one-handed, despite being caught off guard. “Chain 'em up and let's go.”

Slit briefly fumbled with the chain; he had never been on a War Party slave catching gang, and so he had never worked the shackles before. But quickly, his mechanical sense took over as he turned the links over in his hands and found the connectors.

The lanky boy held out a thin, bony wrist to Slit, the thin skin over the wrist bone calloused from the slave dealer's shackles.

“Don't be so ready to be a slave,” Slit muttered, giving the boy a glare. It looked back at him, with curious eyes.

“They'll beat me if I run,” the boy said.

“They'll beat you anyhow.” Slit closed the metal of the shackle around the boy's wrist, making sure the loop was tight enough so that the boy couldn't slip away but not so tight as to hurt the boy's wrist. The click of the clasp sent a sharp sensation through Slit's body that he could not quite identify, a hot-cold feeling that ran straight through his entrails.

“You gonna hit me?”

“No.” Slit knelt, feigning trouble fastening the chain to his belt. He glanced over with narrowed eyes; the Ace was chaining the other child to his belt, giving the metal a tug to test that the links were locked properly.

Slit's eyes grew distant, his expression frozen in studied blankness.

“Where are we going?” the boy asked.

“Away. Somewhere far away.” Slit changed his mind; he looped the end of the chain around the metal bar that crossed his palm, fastening the lock and giving it a yank to make sure that it would hold. The metal slid and tugged futilely against the sturdy bar but did not yield.

“Is it far?”

“Where we are going...” Slit paused, and then gave the boy a serious, considering look. A scruff of sun-bleached ruddy hair. Dark brown eyes set in a long face and the exposed skin of his face and the back of his hands burnt nearly black from the harsh light of the sun. A flat snub nose, the bridge of it broken and healed crooked from some past fight.

It was either this or the mines. The War Tower or a dusty grave.

Slit took a deep breath and spoke:

“Your name's Gamble now. Remember that. Gamble. Whatever name you had before...keep it to yourself. Don't tell anyone else.”

“Why?”

“It's the only thing that you'll have that's your own.” Slit stood, and took the boy's grimy hand in his, the loose chain swinging a clinking arc between them. “The only thing in this world that truly belongs to you.”

*****

By the time the War Boys returned, the unloading of the War Rig was in full swing. Out came all the sacks of dried food, the tin boxes of goods, and the Half-life Nobles directed the work, shouting instructions as Drivers and Lancers alike formed a chain that moved goods out from the lower hatch of the cargo hold. Dust billowed about the stacked goods and around the War Rig, armed War Boys formed a perimeter, protecting the assets while above on the great gates of Bartertown, the Imperial Guards watched the proceedings curiously, fingering their own rifles.

Squabbling merchants of all sorts stood around, jostling to show Furiosa their promissory notes and letters of credit as she pored through the accounts book tucked against her metal arm. A handful of War Boys stood protectively around the Imperator, keeping the merchants at arm's length, though that didn't stop them from trying to shout each other down.

The Ace unchained the newly bought pup from his belt and handed the end of the chain to Morsov, quickly making his way over to the Imperator's side.

“Sorry we're late. How's it going?”

“It's going.” Furiosa handed him the accounts books. “Double check the numbers. I've already looked through it once and everything seems to line up. We'll start clearing out our debts first before opening up to trade.”

“Yes, Imperator.” And checking over the numbers again, with the experience of years of practice, the Ace raised his voice and began calling out the names of the merchants that were owed payment.

 

Slit stood by Morsov, waiting for the War Rig to be unloaded enough so that they could drop off their small charges. The boys stood close to them, and Morsov was fussing over the little one, giving it water from his own canteen, carefully tipping water into its open mouth.

Gamble stared at Morsov's canteen thirstily, but when Morsov moved to hand the boy the water, Slit blocked his hand.

“You're almost out. Save some for yourself until you get a chance to refill.” Unscrewing his own water bottle, Slit took a long drink and then handed it to the pup, letting the child drink at its leisure.

“Do you think they'll be done soon?”

“Dunno.” Slit fiddled with the chains rattling against his bracer, the sound of clashing metal grating his ear. “Probably not. Lots of merchants lined up.” With a clink he unlocked the chain, and as the metal slid through his palm he caught the end of it, twining the links of steel through his fingertips, feeling the bite of metal as the chain squeezed his flesh.

“Look, there go some Traders.” Morsov pointed; Traders on the other side of the loading gate waved and gestured to their family members outside, enumerating the deals without leaving the safety of Bartertown. “Traders, merchants...everyone's here.”

“Don't trust any of them.” Slit muttered.

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“Slit. Was just thinking. Do you know if Ace will want us to train this one for a Polecat? Pup is too small for the Lancer training. Maybe too brave to be picking beans.”

“Dunno.” Slit looked off into the distance, past the walls of Bartertown, to the open waste beyond. If only they were heading out already; was a day of Bartertown not enough? But then, he remembered hearing that most trips ran up to three days, sometimes more and his mood soured. “Thought you were a Half-life Noble and knew everything about training.”

Morsov shrugged. “They don't tell me everything. Got lowest ranking.”

Slit scowled to himself; it was just like Morsov to downplay the fact that he was still higher ranked. He glared down at the pup. “You done with that water yet, pup?”

Gamble gulped down the last of it and handed him the empty vessel; Slit rolled his eyes and reclipped the empty canteen to his tool belt.

“Can't stop paying attention with these little ones for even one second,” Morsov chuckled. “Drank all your ration! You have to ask for more.”

“So what, meant to do it. Need a refill any...” Something caught Slit's attention, the gleam of polished and oiled tungsten carbide and he looked over at the merchant talking with the Ace and the Imperator.

Dressed in Trader's garb but not a real Trader; the man wore no condenser and if he had, it might have spared him the trouble that was about to come his way.

Shiny tunsten carbide buttons all up and down the front of his sun-faded black coat.

Slit's eyes narrowed. There was something familiar about the man, who turned to chat to the Imperator, smiling over some joke that he had made.

Tall, black hair streaked gray, broad-shouldered and slender-waisted, with blue-green eyes and a generous smile. Narrow, deep-set eyes, dark curling beard strewn with white like the toxic salt crusts of the Powder Lakes.

“I know that man.” Slit felt the chain in his hand slip but he caught the end before it fell out of his hand. He handed the chain to Morsov carelessly, who took it with a shrug.

“Maybe we saw him earlier through town?”

“No, I know that man.” Slit shoved Morsov from him. “I know that man!” Slit shouted, raising his voice and surprised, the War Boys paused in their work to stare at him. Even those standing sentry around the War Rig craned their heads to see what was causing the commotion.

“I know that man!” Slit shouted once more. 

“Slit!” The Ace looked up from the accounts book. “Keep it down, we're trying to trade!”

“I know that man.” Slit pushed his way through the crowd, making it to the Ace's side in quick long strides, with that sway-hipped Lancer walk that showed his years of training. “Ace. He's a cheat and a liar. I know!” Slit spat venomously on the ground, and the merchant flinched back, eyes wide, mouth gaping speechless at the sudden outburst.

“Slit...” The Ace's voice had a low tone of warning in it, but before he could take another breath to shout, Slit interrupted.

“Ace. Ace. Imperator...Furiosa. I can prove it. Check his goods, he's selling you short.”

Furiosa and the Ace gave each other a questioning look.

“It's worth giving it a look.” Furiosa shrugged. “Check the goods.”

 

The spools of thick copper wire were pulled out of their dented tin boxes and counted. They gleamed with the fiery gold of new copper despite the cloudy day, and Slit stood beside the Imperator with his arms crossed, glaring.

“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen...it's all here.” The Ace straightened up. “You got anything else to say for yourself Slit?” He stood with a sigh, dusting off his black-stained hands.

“Yeah.” And before anyone could move or say or do anything, Slit stepped forward and plucked out a spool at random, pulling out a pair of cutting pliers.

“Slit, what are you doing?”

“Stop him!” The merchant shouted. “He's going to damage the goods!”

Ignoring the Ace, Slit unspooled about an arm's length of wire and began to cut it. The wire seemed too thick to cut through with such a small hand tool, too heavy, but the pliers snipped through them easily, revealing a silver-gray core with a sheen of copper on the outside.

“Copper-dipped lead wire.” Slit pocketed his pliers with a sharp motion, showing the sectional cut that he had made. “Probably all of it's fake. A handspan of real copper wire and the rest inferior lead.” He tossed the length of wire to the ground contemptuously, and it clattered to a stop by his boot.

“Whoa, whoa.” The merchant raised his hands as armed War Boys all around began closing in around him. “Boys, boys, boys! This is a mistake. Clearly the orders was mixed up. Clearly this is a mistake! You'll have your wire--”

Furiosa cut him off with a sharp motion of her hand. Two War Boys grabbed him and the man struggled, smudging his black coat with their sweat-damp white.

“There are penalties for those who try to cheat the Citadel. Penalties for breaking a deal,” she said, raising her voice so that she could be heard.

“Penalties dealt by the mistress of Bartertown,” a new voice called out, high and clear and there was a brief commotion, a flurry of black feathers as an Imperial Guard vaulted off the gate from where he had been standing, landing heavily in the dust.

The man tossed back his headdress of long black hair in a mane that hung down to his waist, the chains on his armor jingling as he moved. “The law decrees: Bust a deal, face the wheel!”

“Bust a deal! Face the wheel!” The guards on the gate chanted, and all around, curious onlookers took up the words, their voices growing into a raucous chorus.

Slit felt the ancient words rise up in him, bubbling over until he shouted it too.

Bust a deal! Face the wheel!

*****

“Weapons down!”

Coil shouted, struggling to be heard; like the Ace he strode through the escort, calling for the War Boys to keep their weapons lowered, to take their fingers off the trigger; the last thing they needed was to start a brawl at the gates of Bartertown.

The chanting grew louder and louder, the phrases gaining in tempo and from the sound of it, more and more people amassed at the gates on the Bartertown side, their voices drowning out even the Ace.

Imperial Guards had descended from the gate; they moved to take the merchant into custody and Furiosa gestured for the War Boys to let him go. The man stumbled, white-smeared, and made a move to run but the Imperial Guards grabbed him before he could take a step, dragging him to his feet.

The chanting suddenly faltered and stopped. Coil wondered what was going on on the other side of the gate until he heard ringing footsteps on metal, slow and deliberate, heading up onto the gate.

The sound of metal striking metal echoed shivering through the steel container.

She strode onto the great loading gate of Bartertown, preceded by a pair of tall Imperial Guards, who she towered over despite their height. Two functionaries followed; Coil recognized them as the Collector and the Doctor Feelgood. At her gesture, the crowd seemed to sigh with anticipation, waiting for her word as the lover waits for his beloved. The metal of her dress caught the light, glimmering like fresh water and her smooth, unscarred skin was the burnished, dark color of rare wood, from trees long since exterminated from this world. The vaguest hint of cleavage at the very end of the deep cut of her dress and Coil found himself looking more closely, until a curling lock of her long black hair obscured it from view.

This was Aunty Entity in the flesh.

Coil glanced at Furiosa, and there was an expression of awe and admiration in her eyes that he had never seen before.

“Bust a deal and face the wheel. That is the law.” Aunty Entity's voice was low, almost sensual, and when he dared to look, he saw Furiosa lick her dry lips.

Aunty Entity raised an elegantly plucked eyebrow, the corners of her full lips curling up at the edge of a smirk and when she tilted her head to turn to speak softly to one of her escort, Coil could not help but look at the long curve of her legs, and how much bare flesh her dress revealed.

The merchant in the meantime, stumbled forward, pleading his case to Bartertown's sole ruler. “Law's the law but we was out of Bartertown! Law don't apply beyond the gates!” 

Aunty Entity pointed to one of her functionaries, and the Collector spoke, his voice harsh and brassy, “Bartertown's jurisdiction extends to the border 100 kliks from the center.”

“Besides,” Aunty added, amused, though there was steel behind that smile. “What gives you the right to bust a deal on my very doorstep? Bring the wheel.”

 

They brought the ancient iron wheel to the very gate, opening it wider so that the wheel stood half in, half out, in that liminal space that was at once both the waste and Bartertown. The thick raised letters cast deep shadows in the low afternoon sun. 

A smiling, handsomely attired youth wearing one white glove stood beside the wheel, and the merchant was flanked by two guards, their hard hands gripping him by his arms so he could not run. Crowds gathered just beyond a cordon of Imperial Guards; people lined the nearby roads and gathered on the rooftops to watch in silence. Someone had even put on a pair of stilts, towering and teetering over the crowd.

“Justice.” The Doctor Dealgood said, her voice intentionally soft, so that all strained to hear. She strode around the wheel slowly, circumnavigating it, one step in Bartertown, one step in the waste, her black cloak billowing around her broad shoulders. “Like life itself, governed by the turning wheel, hanging by the barest thread. And here in Bartertown, we know that our fortunes, our lives, are guarded by the law, by chance, and by justice.”

“One in ten chances of death,” Tran murmured, watching from a distance.

“Less, Tran. Less,” Dart said softly. “Higher probability of getting Hard Labor or Aunty's Choice. Just look at the area of each spoke of the wheel, it's area dependent. Just because there are ten options doesn't mean each one has the same probability. Split up the sectors equally and you'll see Death's less than one in ten.”

“One bar on Gulag,” Coil whispered. “No, Life Imprisonment. One bar on Life Imprisonment.”

“They dig a deep hole and leave 'em in it,” the Ace muttered. “Three, four days tops.”

“Justice.” The Doctor gestured expansively to the wheel. “A roll of the dice. A flip of a coin. The turning of the world wheel. Rota Fortunae, Imperatrix Mundi!” At the signal, the smiling youth with his gloved hand placed the merchant's shaking hand on the wheel and gave the wheel a gentle turn.

The silence was astounding; it seemed that all around them the crowds held their breath, watching and waiting, listening to the quiet inexorable creak of the wheel.

Turning and turning and for a moment Coil looked to the baleful sun wheel, low and crimson on the horizon and he touched his dust wrap, stained even redder.

Slowly the wheel began to creep to a halt, and for a moment, just a breath, it hovered over Life Imprisonment.

And then with a final little creak, the wheel stopped on Aunty's Choice.

Immediately the crowd was abuzz with speculation.

“Just the luck,” Coil said wryly, surreptitiously slipping Tran a food bar behind his back.

“Can't win all the time.” Tran pocketed the bar with a wink.

“Close but not close enough. You were right, Dart.”

“Arc length,” Dart said. “The more area in the sector, the more arc length, the higher the probability.”

Aunty Entity watched from her high perch, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes watching over the proceedings with amusement.

“Aunty's Choice! Aunty's Choice!” The crowd cried, and it turned quickly into a chant as Aunty Entity seemed to mime the motions of consideration, tapping her chin thoughtfully, nodding her head as if making up her mind.

“You can tell they love her,” Furiosa said softly, and Coil was surprised; he didn't realize she had wandered to his side. “They respect and fear her, but they love her.”

At a loss for words, Coil said nothing. Before he could think of a reply, the people of Bartertown fell suddenly quiet, as Aunty Entity gestured for silence.

“So it's come down to this. Aunty's Choice. Here I hold the trust of the people, and the life of this man in my hand.” Aunty Entity raised her right hand as if still cupping the silver sphere of her office. “Do you trust me to deal fairly, to deal justice?”

The roar of assent was loud, so loud that it made those feast days when the Wretched were fed and watered seem quiet, provincial and mild compared to this seething mob.

“The law has chosen Aunty's Choice.” Aunty Entity drew it out, pacing deliberately, building up the tension of her decision. The tall metal heels of her boots echoing on the metal container, the silvery chain of her dress swaying gently around her hips. 

All around the people waited, breaths held in anticipation. 

“The law has chosen Aunty's Choice! And Aunty chooses...Thunderdome!”

“Thunderdome!”

The roar of the crowd was deafening as people cheered, pounded on the steel gates, clapped and stamped their feet.

“Thunderdome!” 

“Thunderdome.” Aunty's voice rang clear, cutting through the crowd and the chanting seethed down to a simmer. “Tomorrow at moonrise, a new edition of Thunderdome!”

The crowd cheered and began to disperse, but there were also those who hauled themselves onto higher ground, peering over the fence at the War Boys, pointing and chattering excitedly. 

“Now what?” Furiosa asked, watching as the wheel was hauled away by burly muscle-bound slaves, the merchant dragged away by guards.

“Dunno. Never had the wheel turn this way before. Busted deal don't happen too often, but when it does...” The Ace shook his head. “Gulag. Hard Labor. Forfeit Goods.” He ticked off the options on his fingers. “Seen all those, even the Spin Again, even though that time it ended in Death. Only Aunty's Choice I ever saw ended in exile, the Trader getting banned from Bartertown for life.”

“But never Thunderdome,” Furiosa said, half to herself as she back looked up at the top of the gate, expecting that Aunty Entity was already gone.

To her surprise, the ruler of Bartertown was still there, and had her eyes on Furiosa.

“Imperator.” Aunty Entity said, and it took Furiosa a long moment to realize that Aunty Entity was addressing her and not someone else.

“Yes. I am an Imperator. Of the Citadel,” Furiosa said simply and respectfully.

“And so the turn of the wheel brings you to me. A new Imperator, out of the waste.” Aunty Entity's mouth tightened a little, and Furiosa felt a twinge of fear; was there something that she had said or done to offend? “What is your name, Imperator?”

“Furiosa.”

“Furiosa.” Aunty Entity said the syllables slowly, carefully and considering, as if tasting the name on her lips. “Furiosa...” She tilted her head slightly, briefly in thought, before coming to a decision.

“Come, Imperator Furiosa of the Citadel. Come, and leave your weapons.” Aunty Entity beckoned with a curled finger. “Come with me.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Bring a War Boy if you must, but come with me. We'll discuss the terms of the Thunderdome.” Aunty Entity said, beckoning Furiosa.

Furiosa immediately turned to the Ace. “What do I do?”

“Go,” the Ace whispered. “You can't turn her down, not in front of all these people. She'd take it as an insult. Go.”

“Ace, come with me,” Furiosa said softly, just loud enough for him to hear. She could feel Aunty Entity's eyes on her, and the eyes of all the people, the guards, the functionaries, the common folk, her War Boys, her Half-life Nobles. “Please.” 

“Can't. You know I can't. One of us should stay with the War Rig at all times, Imperator or crew lead,” the Ace murmured. “Go, you'll be all right. If she's called you out in public like this, she's bound by honor not to harm you. Acosta went to see her lots of times, you know that.” 

“Yes, but-”

“I'll go.” Coil said quickly, before anyone else could volunteer. “If you want me to, Furiosa, I'll come with you.”

“Fine.” Furiosa's jaw tightened, her heart thumping in her chest, but she turned and bravely faced the gate, conscious of the intense scrutiny.

She took a deep breath.

Squaring her shoulders Furiosa stepped forward, her boots clipping crisply through the dust. As she walked she tried to project the boldness and confidence that she did not quite feel. Coil followed in her wake and as they came to the gate, a squadron of Imperial Guards surrounded and stopped them.

“Weapons.” An Imperial Guard said curtly, the one with the long black headdress.

“We're unarmed,” Furiosa replied.

“That doesn't look like you're unarmed,” the guard said, pointing at her metal hand. “Augmented exoskeletons count as weapons.”

“What's the trouble?” Aunty Entity's distinctive voice sliced through the crowd of guards as they parted for her.

“Weapons, Aunty,” the guard said deferentially. “Please park your weapons before we can let you in.”

“Weapons.” Up close Aunty Entity was taller than Furiosa had imagined, imposing in her height, her tall heeled boots giving her an extra three or four fingers so that she stood easily over eleven hands. “What weapons?” 

“I uh...” the guard stammered in protest, but Aunty Entity waved Furiosa in, gesturing Furiosa to her side.

“Welcome to Bartertown, Imperator.” 

*****

“Water? Fruit?” Somehow Furiosa had expected to be brought into Aunty's Perch, the tall metal tower that rose high above Bartertown near the Thunderdome, where Aunty Entity held court but instead the Imperial Guards had escorted them into Aunty's Palace, cut into the very sandstone of the plateau. To get there they had passed through a heavily guarded and locked steel gate, into a miniature paradise. 

In the very heart of the plateau, centuries of digging and quarrying had opened up canyons and terraces that were planted thickly with food plants, with stunted trees that sagged heavy with fruit, with flowers that numerous slaves tended with care, moving dabs of pollen from one plant to another. It was a gesture of generosity, walking them the long way through, letting the War Boys see the scale of the fountains and the farms, but it was also a gesture of power, and Furiosa recognized the hand of intimidation when she saw it.

The room they were brought into was airy and open, not a particularly big room but one that had been carved into the pale sandstone with graceful decorative arches, nothing like the oppressive grandeur of the Immortan's Tower or the claustrophobic confines of the War Tower. A room in the round, it was centered around a natural opening in the rock that held a small green garden, open to the flame-streaked sky.

There was a metal shutter fixed to the rock above the opening, and Furiosa realized that it was a protective measure; they could close it off entirely during storms.

Furiosa glanced at the fiery clouds and estimated an hour to full dark. 

She took a deep breath, and the air tasted like the sweetness of fresh water intermingled with the green scent of plants.

“Yes. Water, please.” Furiosa took the wire-wrapped glass jar from Aunty Entity's hands and carefully drank; it was a beautiful, sizable vessel, a survivor from the ancient world. No one knew how to make glass with this clarity or purity anymore and briefly she admired its brilliant water-clear sparkle before handing it back.

Suddenly she realized she had not brought her own water bottle, and could not offer Aunty Entity a drink, the way that she had shared water with the Trader out on the open waste. It made her ill at ease, uncomfortable at having been caught unprepared, worried she had ignored some important piece of protocol until she remembered that even on those rare occasions when she was brought to court as an escort of the Imperator, she had never seen Aunty Entity eat or drink before.

“Welcome to Bartertown, Imperator.” Aunty Entity gestured for her to sit, and Furiosa dusted herself before sitting down on the embroidered cushions of the grand wooden chair, very consciously aware and embarrassed to be so dirty from days of driving.

“Thank you, Aunty Entity,” Furiosa murmured politely, feeling her voice waver.

“Your escort's allowed to sit.” Aunty Entity gestured eloquently to Coil, who stood tense by the door, eyeing the armed Imperial Guard who stood just beyond the threshold. 

“Coil.” Furiosa gestured, and Coil moved to a little metal stool nearby that seemed that it was used by the guards and servants.

Unclasping fastenings of steel at her throat and collarbone, Aunty Entity sighed as she slipped off her mantle of silvery chain mail with a faint musical jangle, revealing her bare neck and shoulders it was at that moment Furiosa realized that she was a man.

“Forgive me.” Aunty Entity set her mantle aside, hanging it casually on the back of her own chair before sitting down. “It gets rather heavy.”

Furiosa nodded, unable to say anything, settling her metal hand on the arm of the chair, careful not to scratch the wood. There was a strange sense of disappointment that went through her; she had expected Aunty Entity to be the kind of strong fighting woman she had grown up knowing all her life. All her life before her life, she thought. Unlived...

She shook off her thoughts. What mattered who it was that wore the mask of Aunty Entity? As long as someone wore the mantle, she had to defer to them, and it shouldn't matter to her who ran Bartertown. It was none of her business. 

And yet, Furiosa couldn't quite shrug off the feeling that it did matter.

“Aunty Entity, about the Thunderdome...”

“Oh that. Let's have some fruit first, shall we? You look clemmed.” Aunty Entity leaned over to a nearby table and picked up a bowl, heavy with a multitude of fruits. “Please, take what you like.”

Hesitantly, Furiosa was briefly overwhelmed by the number of choices, before settling on the closest piece of fruit to her right hand, a round, red-splotched fruit with a gently tapered end, its skin softly fuzzy to the skin of her palm and when she brought it to her nose, its strange, sweet perfume briefly overwhelmed her.

She held it in her hand, uncertain of what to do.

“It's been washed in pure water. You have nothing to fear from contamination.” For herself Aunty Entity took a similar fruit, and took a bite, watching Furiosa with amusement.

“Thank you.” Afraid of offending her host, Furiosa sank her teeth into it, mimicking Aunty Entity, unsure of what would happen or how the fruit would taste. With the initial bite came tender sweetness and the flood of the fruit's fragrant waters sent shivers through her mouth and tongue. She found herself with eyes half-closed, sinking into the chair and sighing with the pleasure.

When she opened her eyes again, she briefly noticed Coil's eyes on her but then nothing else seemed to matter but the press of the fruit against her lips.

She ate the fruit slowly, savoring its yielding white flesh, licking sticky running juices from her fingers. Inside, was a large oval seed, smooth and yet pitted, of hard gnarled wood, and she ate around it carefully.

“Imagine, that in the old world, they actually grew fruit intentionally without seeds.” Aunty Entity said thoughtfully. “What a mad thing to do, intentionally creating fruits with no seed. Breeding out genetic viability on purpose, just for the sake of a few mouthfuls of pleasure.” Aunty Entity put the fruit seed into a small blue-green ceramic bowl that already had other seeds within it, and when Furiosa moved to do the same, Aunty Entity stopped her. 

“No, child.” And here, Furiosa found herself amused; up close it was obvious that even under the skilled maquillage, the painted eyes and curved plucked brows that the man who was Aunty Entity was some years younger than her. “Keep it.”

“Are you sure?” Furiosa's breath caught; a seed like this was valuable, almost more valuable than the fruit, the kind of plant that came from an antique, heritage strain that was almost extinct from the world. She had never tasted this sort of fruit before and wondered if she ever would again.

“I'm sure. Keep it, as a reminder of our first meeting” Aunty Entity's hand patted hers warmly and Furiosa felt herself smiling just a bit, charmed despite herself. 

“What do you call this fruit?”

“It's called a peach. A white-fleshed peach. Yellow ones existed too, or so I have read, but these are good to eat whether hard or soft.”

“Peach.” Furiosa dragged the vowels out, tasting the word as though she were tasting the fruit again. 

In her mouth, the sweetness lingered and she licked her lips once more.

 

“You wanted to know about the Thunderdome.” Aunty Entity finally said, and from his seat, Coil stirred.

“Yes. What do I need to do? How do I prepare for the fight?”

Aunty Entity chuckled, a throaty, lovely sound, clasping her hands together in amusement. When Furiosa noticed Aunty Entity's beautifully polished and manicured fingernails, she curled the fingertips of her right hand into her palm, so that her own grimy fingernails could not be seen. 

“Oh no, my dear, no. What thing to say. We live in civilized times now! No one fights in the Thunderdome directly to resolve their disputes anymore. There are gladiators for that, hired fighters and slaves that can be bought to fight.”

“Slaves?” Furiosa frowned. “How do we know they'd fight their best?”

“No one wants to die,” Aunty Entity said reasonably, as though it were obvious. “Of course, you do realize that your lot won't be allowed to trade until this unpleasant business is settled. After all, we don't know yet if you'll lose or not.”

Furiosa felt a cold twinge run through her entrails. “What happens if we lose?” 

“Then you lose the goods in dispute, and you must also pay for the other side's expenses. So you'll understand why we can't let you trade until it's concluded. The price of the gladiators, the loss of reputation...” Aunty's mouth moved into a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “It's quite costly.”

“And I can't fight for myself.” Furiosa said slowly, considering her options.

“No, my dear you may not. As I said, we are not ferals or barbarians; we live in civilized times.”

“If I can't fight in the Thunderdome myself...Could I pick someone to fight for me?” Furiosa said thoughtfully.

“There is a special market for gladiators in Bartertown. We would be more than happy to sell you one.”

“But it doesn't have to be a bought gladiator, right? Could it be a War Boy? As long as it's not me.”

“I suppose that's rather unusual. You're the first to ask this question, but then again, you're not the usual type are you?” Aunty Entity said wryly. “Well, the law does say any champion of your choosing. As long as they're willing to do the dirty work for you. Perhaps you have someone in mind to audition for the job?”

“Coil.” At her word, Coil was on his feet immediately. 

“Yes, Imperator?”

“Let's go. We'll discuss our options with the crew lead.” Furiosa made to stand. “Thank you for your time, Aunty En--”

“Wait. Please.” Aunty Entity touched Furiosa's elbow lightly, gently, stilling her movement. “We have so much more to discuss. Do me the favor of honoring my threshold and stay the night.”

“Uh...” Shocked, Furiosa hesitated, and when she glanced at Coil, she saw him shake his head infinitesimally, mouthing the word 'No'.

“Your Imperator Acosta was not so hesitant to take up the offer of hospitality,” Aunty Entity smiled, and there was something so sweet and genuinely wistful in it that Furiosa found herself torn, knowing that she had been challenged by the mere mention of Acosta and yet sensing that there was something more to the offer than a play for power.

Furiosa stood, but made no motion to move. “Coil, send the message to the crew lead to pick a suitable War Boy to fight in the Thunderdome tomorrow night. I'll stand by his decision. And...”

“Anything else, Imperator?” Coil said stiffly.

She considered her options and then spoke. “Tell him I'll be seeing him tomorrow.”

“Yes, Imperator.” 

*****

Coil was escorted out of Bartertown in a daze; they had never been separated before, not like this and by who? A tall young dandy who styled himself master of Bartertown? It made no sense to him.

And then to see her, the pink tip of her tongue licking her fruit-stained fingers and the little shy smile that she had for the master of Bartertown. She had never smiled like that for anyone else, Coil thought. That was the way she smiled for no one else but him...

“Coil, what's wrong?” The Ace met him at the Loading Gate; it seemed that someone had been on lookout on the top of the War Rig, waiting for either him or Furiosa to return.

“She's staying the night.” 

“So?” The Ace shrugged. “Way you looked, I thought you had lost her in a fight, maybe she got hurt. She's fine, right?”

“Of course. Furiosa's fine. She's currently enjoying Aunty Entity's hospitality.” Coil said bitterly, and the Ace patted his shoulder.

“There there, Aunty's hospitality is sure something to be jealous of. Once, ages ago when you were still a pup, couple of us crewmates were invited with Acosta to a big party in Aunty's Palace. The pure water! The fruit and the fresh food! The water here tastes different from the Citadel you know, less iron and more minerals, cool and sweet when it's fresh from the aquifer. It was something to remember, a McFeast for all times. The warm beds, the gardens and fountains...just like a vision of the world Before. Say, you got sent back with a message, didn't you? She didn't send you back just to say she was stayin over.”

“No, she wants you to pick a War Boy to fight tomorrow. In the Thunderdome. We can't lose.”

“Course not,” the Ace said. “Would be a blow to our reputation if we lost. Can't look like a pack of whipped pups. Gotta show 'em our teeth, show 'em that no one can bust a deal with the Citadel and get away with it. Gotta think of a good War Boy for a fight, see who'd be best... Come on, Coil. Come sit down and eat, you're lookin hollow. Let's get you a hot supper. Tran! Bring the lamp over, you still got some of that hot water?”

“I'm fine.” Coil said, but all he could see was the little lift, the sigh and shiver that went through her shoulders as she pressed the fruit to her lips again, and he kicked his boots through the dust, with a futile sense of frustration that he had never known before.

*****

Aunty Entity had told her to wash up for dinner, and she wasn't sure what that meant until she was shown a modest private room with a low vaulted ceiling and a window overlooking a garden. The opening in the stone was framed in iron with a large single panel of real glass, perfectly clear, a found object from the old world, with real cloth curtains for privacy. There was a broad iron-framed bed, lashed through with an intricately woven springy surface made from plant material that she was loathe to touch with her dirty hand. Soft cotton bedding dyed green, a fortune of new cloth, sat folded at the foot of the bed.

Warm light filled the room, from electricals set into carved niches in the stone and on a whim she opened the window, letting in a cool damp breeze from the garden.

She found the chipped enamel wash basin; it was full of pure water. After she had taken her arm off and set it aside, Furiosa stood before the water, briefly frozen by indecision. This much pure water was a generous two days of drinking for a crew of two. Was it right to sully it this way, to use it as though she were using the wastewater catchment back home, for cleaning?

But then she shook her head; this had to be reclaimed water, she decided; no one in their right mind used pure water to wash.

Thoughtlessly, she picked up the dark green bar of soap and lathered it with her hand.

Immediately the smell jolted her and she stood there, almost foolishly, gripping that newly cut square-edged bar of soap and she felt the tears run down her face, dripping off her chin. It was a smell that she knew, down deep into her soul and it had a fragrance she remembered only from dreams, the scent of childhood. The green olive soap that they made, and she remembered that once she had helped, cutting waxy fragrant blocks from the rectangular mould and wrapping the bars in paper to keep safely until they were needed.

Furiosa choked back a sob, sniffling. It was silly to be so emotional over something so little, she decided. Soap was soap, she argued to herself as she scrubbed off quickly, washing her arms and her face, as well as the smooth-shaved skin of her head, though secretly reveling in the fresh, clean plant scent that clung to her skin.

 

For the occasion, she dug through her tool pockets to find a small container of clear petroleum ointment, and she carefully wiped off and polished her arm with a clean shop cloth, buffing the leather of the harness before strapping the arm back on, feeling the familiar, comforting heft. She closed her metal hand into a fist, hearing the click and whir of the actuators.

I can do this.

The heavy wooden door opened with a creak and Furiosa stepped outside, into the curving hallway. She glanced for a moment at the Imperial Guard waiting outside, who directed her to her left, going back the way she had come in.

A tall young man in drab, loose cotton garments met her at the door, and for a moment she thought him a servant, until he spoke.

“You look so different without the black.” He gestured to her forehead, and she touched her own forehead lightly, realizing she had washed off the chromed black grease without remembering to reapply, a sign of her status.

“You look...different too.” Furiosa said awkwardly, and then immediately regretted her words, afraid she had offended him.

He laughed. “I can't live in a cage all the time.” The young man brushed aside his homely braid of black hair and gestured to his narrow shoulders, eloquently miming the raised shoulders of the chain mail dress. “It's over 60 kilos of steel. Six deka by the common count.” He rolled his shoulders, shaking out his arms as if to shrug off the implied weight.

The young man offered her his hand. “Come with me, Furiosa.”

 

He led her outside, through a garden to another part of the palace. Like the rest of the place, it was well-guarded. They passed a pair of armed Imperial Guards and ascended a short flight of stone-cut stairs to enter a large domicile, where the walls were hung with ancient paintings and woven hangings, the windows draped in sheer cloth.

“Welcome to Aunty's Palace,” he said drolly, and she could not help but smile. “This is where I live.”

Beneath the maquillage, he looked almost ordinary, somehow familiar, with a striking, stern profile and a strong hatchet nose. His full lips came to something of a pout when his face was still, and it reminded her of the other Aunty Entity, the older woman that she remembered from her past visits to Bartertown. 

“What are you called?” Furiosa asked, and he gave her a wry look.

“Aunty Entity, of course. But you know that.”

“No, I don't mean what other people call you. What's your name?”

He paused, genuinely surprised, and then he spoke, meeting her eyes.

“My name is Alex.”

 

She watched him curiously as he set to cutting vegetables, to cutting fruit, with a square bladed knife that seemed to have no other purpose than to chop food. She had never seen anyone who wasn't an Organic do this kind of work; it was strange for a person to own so much labor and not have their food made for them.

“I haven't been Aunty Entity for very long,” Alex said, eyes focused on his work. “To be honest, this is my first season. Not too many seasons after I reached my majority, Mother abdicated the throne.”

“Abdicated...do you mean, she gave it up?”

“Gave it all up. Everything.” Alex smiled wryly at her, catching her eye as he gestured expansively. “Bartertown, the palace, the gardens, the perch...the squabbling merchants fighting each other for rank, the packs of roving ferals just beyond the gates...the weight of responsibility. She ran off with a Trader mob and is touring the waste just as she's always wanted to do. Put on the condenser and everything.”

“So no one would recognize her.”

“No. She's even taken a Trader name. Could be anyone by now, really. A somebody who has become a nobody, roaming the waste.” The young man smiled to himself, his lips pursed in a tense line. 

“Do you know what Trader mob she went with?” Furiosa was curious; could they have come across Aunty Entity in the waste, traveling to Bartertown? She remembered Garru and tried to decide if that woman looked like Aunty.

“No, and even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you.” Alex replied curtly. “It's already too much to say, that she's with the Traders. Though for all you know, that could be a lie too.”

Furiosa's eyebrows went up; she had never imagined that people could think this way and she wondered how many steps ahead this new Aunty Entity was, how many possibilities and permutations the young man had already thought through before opening his mouth. Immediately it made him much more dangerous; this loose and casual appearance, the sand-colored clothes and the thick twisted braid with its escaping tendrils of hair belied the fact that he was undoubtedly Aunty Entity.

She changed the subject.

“Are you...cooking your own food?” she asked, curious. After all, even the Immortan never lifted a finger to make his own food. No War Boy did who wasn't an Organic, specialized in the task.

“Yours and mine,” he gestured to the bubbling pot full of beans and lentils. “It's a hobby that I find enjoyable. Besides, making my own food means I don't always need a taster.”

“You...have people to taste your food? To try it before you, to see if it tastes good?” Furiosa was amazed; this was a level of wealth she could not imagine.

He laughed, doubling over. “Oh no, no, my dear. Not for that. Where there is power, there are enemies. And with enemies comes the possibility of poison.” 

Shocked speechless, she could not imagine such a thing. Briefly it made her wonder why no one had tried poisoning the Immortan, after all he never had his food tasted for poison before he ate, and Furiosa felt a little queasy, a little nauseous, imaging a world in which she could not trust her fellow War Boys on such a basic, fundamental level.

 

The food was good, all made from fresh produce. Greens, roots, lentils, beans, and mushrooms, stewed with a red savory fruit, served over a bed of some kind of chewy nutty grain and besides that, generous plates of fresh, water-crisp greens dressed with tangy fermented beet syrup and fragrant plant oils, scattered with sunflower seeds.

“Forgive me, I would have served meat or fish, but I recall Mother saying that your kind do not eat such foods. Apparently Imperator Acosta was rather offended the first time.”

“No. We eat no meat foods. But when I was small, I ate meat,” Furiosa said, hesitantly. “The flesh of birds and small animals. Reh...rah...” She tested out the syllables, trying to remember the right word but then shook her head. “Don't remember their names anymore. Where we are from in the waste now, the only reliable meat comes from humans.”

He grimaced. “We are fortunate here to have never had to rely on that. Bartertown has always been a rich place, since the beginning. Even before Aunty Entity the First who we call the Great began work on opening up the plateau, this was a rich place. Water wealth means much in this world.”

“'Whoever owns the water, owns the world,'” Furiosa said, and she wondered where the words had come from, from some distant memory of the past.

“So very true. And even more true than that, is that this world that we live in is a man's world. After all, more of us are born and survive than women, so many more by far.” He lingered over his plate of sweet-roasted fruit, and it made Furiosa feel a little embarrassed to have gulped down her food like a War Boy, as though she were still in the common mess. “Did you know it used to be near equal, the numbers of men and women? What a world it must have been, to have been among so many men and women alike. I can't imagine it.”

“If it's a man's world, why did you have to put on the dress?” Furiosa wondered. “After all, you're not a woman. Does it matter who runs Bartertown?”

“Oh yes. Absolutely. It matters quite a bit who runs Bartertown.” Alex's lips curved at the corners. “There has always been an Aunty Entity, and there will always be an Aunty Entity. Aunty Entity runs Bartertown. It does not matter who Aunty Entity is, it never has, just that there is always an Aunty.”

“And you're her. Aunty Entity.”

“Exactly.”

 

After dinner, they sat on canopied balcony just outside Aunty Entity's quarters, ringed with the cage of an iron trellis for safety. From here Furiosa could see the Imperial Guards quietly walking their rounds below and above, silhouetted against the moon on the rock edge of the plateau. 

Within the confines of the plateau, the cold night wind of the waste had been tamed to something gentler, a pleasing breeze that she saw rustling through his hair, shivering loosened tendrils that had escaped the braid.

She touched her dust wrap, settling it more warmly about her neck and remembered absently that she was also wearing Coil's as well, having forgotten to take it off earlier that day. She took a breath and with it came the scent of what made her a War Boy, metal and sweat and oil, mixed with the sweet plant scent of her clean skin.

Her fingers tangled in the soft folds of cloth and she felt the tiny seams of embroidery on the hidden edge of the dust wrap, feeling the ridge of letters between her fingers without knowing which letters they signified.

They drank a hot drink from beautiful ceramic mugs, heirloom pieces from Before that were glazed with bright colors that could no longer be recreated, lost forever to time. The drink was made from flowers, a mix of tiny broken white flowers and little dark pink buds that settled in the lees of the drink, and Furiosa ate them one by one as she drank, savoring the aromatic flavor of the dried plants.

“There was another reason I asked you here, Imperator. Beyond the pleasure of your company,” Alex said, refilling her cup from a heavy iron pot before setting it back down.

She straightened up in her seat, feeling the metal joins of the bench creak beneath her, the ceramic mug hot between her palms. The night air seemed colder that it was moments ago. She trembled faintly, and convinced herself that it was merely from the wind.

Their eyes met in the warm golden light that peeked out from the uncovered window.

“I know you have not been an Imperator for long,” he said, and there was a hesitation, a cautiousness in the way he spoke that made her uneasy. “And I know there was an Imperator before you, one who had been Imperator for a long time.”

“Yes, these things are true.”

“What happened to him? The Imperator Acosta, the former War Rig Imperator. Am I allowed to ask?” he asked it lightly, as if having merely a casual and passing interest, but his fingers twisted the loose hem of his tunic, an stray lapse of control that she did not quite understand.

“He died,” she said simply. “Killed by Bandits in war. And so I was raised in his place, to be the new War Rig Imperator.”

“Ah.” His mouth tightened into a tense line, and it reminded her of that moment when he first addressed her from the top of the Loading Gate. “How long ago was that?”

She gave him the days, the long count that seemed even longer to her because it included loss of her hand, even though it came to a number she realized was not as large as it seemed.

“So much for history. What a shame...” Alex sighed, and she wondered why he was so disappointed.

“Were you hoping to meet him?” she asked, boldly.

“I never...never really had a chance to meet him before. It would not have been permitted.” He smiled a little to himself, sadly. “I was waiting for the opportunity, when I reached my majority and became Aunty Entity.”

“Imperator Acosta was a truly great man,” she said carefully. “We all admired him.”

“Yes. I have heard many things about him. He and Mother were very close.” And when she looked at him beside her, at the stern profile in the low lamplight, she suddenly realized why he had looked so familiar.

*****

“Look at those lights. The city that never sleeps. Just like Coil here, the War Boy who won't stop moving.” Tran pointed to the bright lights of Bartertown and then to Coil's shadowed form, pacing beside the War Rig. “We'd hardly need to light a lamp, but for the shadow of the Loading Gate. And if we could only harness Coil to something, we could call him 'Generator Coil' and he could power...”

“For a place so big, they never seem to turn off the lights.” Dart interrupted without looking up from the accounting book that he had been marking with the sharp nib of pen, counting and balancing the number of goods, even as he spoke. “They must go through a lot of methane.”

“Methane, wind power, solar, slaves...” The Ace strode over. “Say, Coil, what are you doing so riled up? You're pacin a trough through the dirt, what's wrong?”

“Nothing.” Coil muttered under his breath, his arms crossed over his chest. “I'm fine. Totally fine.”

“He says that, but he doesn't mean it.” Tran said flatly.

“Obviously.” Dart replied. “Leave him alone, Tran. He'll be fine in the morning.”

Frustrated, Coil drew his dust wrap up over his nose, and the press of the soft fabric against his lips made him think again to Furiosa, her lips pressed against the firm red flesh of the fruit...

He pulled off the dust wrap, tugging it down so that it hung loose around his neck.

“Oh, now he's really mad.” Tran chuckled. “Tell us what's on your mind, Coil. Come on, have at it.”

“Ace.” Coil said abruptly, ignoring Tran. “Tomorrow, for the Thunderdome...let me fight.”

The Ace gave him a lazy, skeptical look. “Tomorrow night, you want to fight in the Thunderdome?”

“Yeah.”

The Ace looked him over and shook his head. “That ain't gonna do much to impress her and you know it. Answer's no, you're not fighting.”

“Wait, why not?!”

“Cuz I need a brawler, someone who can take a hit but who can give just as good or better 'n he gets. Someone who can stand up to punishment and deal it out at the same time. You ain't even fought in the line for position before.”

“Didn't I once...?” Coil paused in his pacing, glancing at Tran.

“No, that didn't count as a fight. First of all, you were holding my place in the line. Secondly, you barely shoved him. And third--”

“All right, but there was that Imperator--”

“Arguing doesn't count as fighting,” Dart pointed out reasonably. “Raising your voice doesn't count as fighting either.”

“Don't be a fool, Coil. We need someone who knows their way around their fists.” The Ace held up his hands, showing the lumpy knuckles and scars from years of fights. “You ain't ever been in a real fight, not like that, and the Thunderdome's no place to learn.”

“Then are you going?” Coil phrased it like a challenge, and the Ace chuckled.

“No, course not. Too old 'n slow for that kinda work. Thunderdome fights are for the fast, for the agile. Haven't you seen a fight in the Thunderdome before?”

“No.” Coil looked away, trudging to a halt. “Haven't ever seen one. They always happen at night, and we don't have leave to go into Bartertown after hours.”

“Duty,” Dart said. “Lancers are always on watch at night.”

“Good point. Well, once a long time ago, the Daddy, that is, the Immortan, brought a couple of us with him to watch.” The other War Boys turned to listen; even Dart looked up from the accounts book, his finger marking his place while the cold wind of the waste rustled the leaves about his hand.

The Ace continued: “It's a fight to the death, swingin high. The fighters are harnessed, rigged up to fly around inside the Thunderdome. Lots of weapons and...well, hopefully we'll get leave to go see it, gotta make sure our boy wins, gotta Witness that.”

“Who do you have in mind?” 

“Someone with a vested interest.” The Ace said. “Get to bedding down, crew. First watch of the night is takin their turn round the convoy any minute now.”

*****

It grew cold overnight, and in the pre-dawn darkness Furiosa shivered, drawing the clean cotton bedclothes tight around her. The air was cold and damp, and she wondered how much longer she could sleep before her mother would come to get her up.

Soft sounds, the sounds of work, of hands tilling the soil and she knew that she should already be up to get dressed. It was getting time to harvest and they'd need all the hands that could work, all the legs that could carry. Even the fighting wing of the Many Mothers, the Vuvalini who were trained in battle from the time they were Initiates, would for the season briefly set aside their rifles and motorcycles. Like everyone else in the community, the Vuvalini would take up the scythes, the threshers and the winnowers.

Was that the sound of snipping shears? Who was awake in the Citadel at this hour, when the light was barely touching the sky, cutting lengths of wire? 

Sleepily, she reached for Coil with her aching left hand. Didn't he realize it was cold? He would want to be closer too. This time of year, they usually slept back to back, though sometimes closer during a particularly cold snap.

“Coil? Lancer?” She spoke softly, so as not to wake the others, reaching out blindly with her aching left hand, and then the tender skin over the stump of her left arm brushed against the springy woven surface of the bed and she woke.

A strange dream. She rubbed her eyes with her right hand, slowly remembering where she was and when she was, because she could never quite forget who she was, even in the strange pale light of early morning that seemed to come in from the wrong direction. 

Soft curtains billowed gently in the morning breeze and no wonder she was so cold, she realized, finally remembering that last night after she took her leave from Alex, from Aunty Entity, she had taken off all her clothes and washed down completely in that basin of cool water, so that every inch of her skin smelled sweetly of olive soap, so that she could lie down in that woven bed without feeling as though she were staining it, rendering it filthy by the touch of a work-worn body.

When she sat up, the soft green cotton blanket slipped from her bare shoulder, and she felt odd, strangely vulnerable, very much aware of the curve of her breasts, the tender paleness of the bare skin of her hips, her legs. It was an odd, unsettling feeling, a way she had not felt in a very long time and when she drew the blanket over her shoulder, she pressed her nose to the clean cloth, smelling the faint scent of soap and dried herbs.

Tears prickled her vision briefly, and she did not know why she felt so unsettled. She sat on the springy surface of the bed, nose buried in the stifling folds of cotton, waiting for that cold internal clarity to return to her so she could get out of bed and get to the day's work.

Outside, the slaves tended the garden, snipping off the dead leaves and collecting them carefully in rustling canvas bags.

*****

“How was it?” The Ace met her early at the Loading Gate, just after the yawning Imperial Guards forced the heavy containers apart.

“Good. Good food, slept well. Lots of water.” Furiosa said, and she briefly touched her valuables pocket, remembering the peach seed that she had carefully wrapped in a scrap of clean cloth. “Where's the crew?”

“Still asleep. Some of 'em were on second watch.” They walked back together to the War Rig, and sat down beside the tanker where a small portable stove had been set up. The Ace lit it quickly and efficiently, setting water to boil. “First watch of the day should be startin any moment.” He looked around the convoy; War Boys were handing off rifles to their crewmates and clambering into their vehicles for rest.

“Anything happen overnight?” Furiosa sat down cross-legged and unbuckled her arm with a sigh, letting the weight of the metal hand rest in her lap.

“Nah. No thieves.” The Ace's lip quirked in amusement. “Been a while since we been out here, maybe they forgot to try us.”

“About yesterday...”

“It's nothing.” The Ace waved it off. “Just remember, War Rig Imperator's got different responsibilities than a regular War Boy. We all aim to keep the goods safe, but the Imperator's also gotta keep the bosses sweet.”

“You mean, Aunty Entity.” 

“Well sure, her. She's real important; Acosta met with her privately every time we came out here, ever since the Daddy stopped coming himself. Course, gotta keep the peace with the other Imperators, lots of Imperator business happens in the Immortan's Tower that we don't know much about. Then there's the Daddy, of course. Always important to keep...Furiosa?”

“It's nothing. Just thinking.” Every time, he had said. Every time the War Rig had come to Barrtertown, the two had met privately, and for so many seasons, ages upon ages...

“Don't seem like it's nothing,” the Ace said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “What I said sounds heavy but really it's not that bad. Acosta never made much of it. You'll be fine.”

“It's not that,” she said, and she watched him as he added chicory roots and orange peel to the hot water, adjusting the blend of dried aromatics with practiced ease. “You said he visited her often? Imperator Acosta and Aunty Entity.”

“Yeah?” The Ace watched the pot with a sharp eye before covering it and turning off the stove, letting the lingering heat finish the brew. “So?”

“Did you ever...” Furiosa paused, unsure of her words. “You saw that there's a new Aunty Entity,” she said, finally.

“Yeah, she looks a lot like the old Aunty. Probably her pup, all grown up. You know, there was a big party when it was born, ages ago. Musta been at least 7000 days. All us Half-life Nobles were invited. Never did see the pup for myself cuz they had it behind a screen, but heard it crying, real healthy and strong.”

“Anyone else you think the new Aunty looks like?”

The Ace shrugged. 

“Didn't she seem familiar...?” And she gestured with the tip of her index finger, tracing the suggested curve of scars across her cheekbones, one at a time.

The Ace's brow furrowed. “Can't say I've put too much thought into it, only saw her from a distance but...” Then his breath caught sharply and he leaned over, eyelids creased in pain. She reached out and stroked his back, patting the dusty white, his muscular back tense, hitching beneath her touch.

“Ace. Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine. Just a little twinge.” The Ace straightened up with the hint of a smile on his lips to show her that he was all right, and with arms wrapped around himself he rubbed his ribcage carefully so as not to rub off his white. “You know, it was some party. Me and Moki talked about it for ages afterward. No wonder we were all invited.”

“No wonder.”

 

She sipped the hot brew; the Ace always brewed it strong, smoky-sweet, and it felt good to her, the way the steam rose up from the cup to warm the tip of her nose, and how the tin cup sat hot in her hand, almost painfully so but for those callouses built up from years of working on hot engines.

“Ace, there was something else I wanted to tell you. When I was in Aunty's Palace, we--”

Before Furiosa could continue, a War Boy had approached them, from one of the escort cars clustered behind the War Rig. 

“Imperator. Ace.” The scarred War Boy seemed tense with nervous energy, his hands trembling at his sides, opening and closing in a grasping motion. 

“Slit, you're up early. What's going on?” The Ace looked up from his cup. “Something wrong?”

“Was waiting for the Imperator to come back,” Slit spoke quickly, the consonants garbling and slurring. Immediately, he realized they didn't quite understand what he had said, so he spoke more slowly, more clearly. “Was waiting for the Imperator. Know you'll need someone to fight in the Thunderdome. Who's going in?”

“Well, that's really up to the Imperator. Had some ideas on who to pick, but thought I'd sleep on it.” The Ace turned to Furiosa. “What do you think, Imperator? You got any preferences?”

“I've put some thought into it,”

“No, don't send anyone else,” Slit said insistently. “Send me. I can do it.”

Furiosa considered Slit's offer. He was not known for reliability on the road, though so far he was in good standing with his Driver, and she had heard nothing bad about his behavior since he became a sworn Lancer. Yet she knew that Slit had a reputation for fighting on the line. Some seasons back when Slit was still a Revhead, he had moved up a spot every day for ten days, an entire week of fighting his way up the line. Back then it became something of the nightly sport, to bet on how far up Slit would make it before the Imperator stepped in and the only reason that Furiosa remembered it was because back then Coil had won himself a small mountain of food bars after that week of intense betting.

“Worth considering.” The Ace wrapped his fingers around his warm tin cup of hot chicory. “You know Imperator, Slit's won near all his fights, ever since he was a pup, even against bigger War Boys. Only ever been beaten by a War Boy who's now an upper Imperator.”

“You mean, the new Secundus?”

“The one and the same. Not a weak War Boy by far, probably one of the strongest 'n toughest fighters on the line before he made Imperator.” The Ace said. “What do you think?”

“Any other options, Ace?”

The scarred War Boy nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other but said nothing.

“Maybe Bucket.” The Ace said lightly, and she knew from his tone of voice that he didn't mean it seriously. “Seem to remembering hearin he had been trained to fight as a pup, before he was one of ours.”

“Not as useful as a grown fighter with experience. You're right Ace, Slit is a good choice. Thank you for coming to us with your concerns, War Boy. Tonight you will honor the Citadel with your deeds,” Furiosa said, remembering to add a few words of encouragement before dismissing him.

She raised her arms, miming the V8 with her missing hand and the other War Boys folded their hands into the V8, murmuring their piety.

“Wait, Slit.” The Ace stopped Slit before he could leave. “How long've you been awake? You sleep at all last night?”

Slit shrugged. “First watch. Then had other things to think about.”

“Well, why are you still standing around? You're off the rota today. Tell your Driver he's off the rota too, and go get some rest before the big fight. We'll see you at dusk.”


	13. Chapter 13

Nux yawned, clutching an armful of blankets, making his way through the maze of parked escort vehicles. The only War Boys standing around at this hour were the ones that were on the first day watch and those getting off the second night watch, and he looked to see who was still awake among the Drivers and Lancers, who he knew well enough to borrow from.

Just one more. Nux headed toward the only other chrome-silver single lancer vehicle. Stonker stood yawning, passing the rifle off to his Lancer who headed for the nearest support truck. The tall War Boy leaned against the vehicle, as if settling in to wait. 

Stonker glanced at the position of the sun and then at the War Rig. He fussed with his blanket, knotting and unknotting it before finally shrugging it off as the sun rose.

Stonker shivered as the wind stirred around him but quickly adjusted.

“Oi, Stonker!” Nux waved. “Off the rota? Got a minute?”

“Yes, I'm off. You? Taking up a blanket collection?” Stonker pointed to the stack of blankets that Nux carried.

“Yeah. Was wondering if I could borrow one,” Nux asked politely. “Just need one more.” 

“Let me guess. You never thought to install curtains.”

Abashed, Nux felt himself flush beneath his white. “How'd you know?”

“Common first run mistake, thinking too much about the vehicle but not who's inside the vehicle.” Stonker opened the passenger door and showed Nux the tied bundles of carefully rolled up black fabric that lined the inside of the window frames, even over the windshield. “Did the same thing on my first run. You should put some on your Morrie before the next run, helps you sleep better after night watch. Could probably save on material cost if you get scraps from the armory and pay someone to run them through the sewing machine. That's how I got mine made.”

“I'll think about it once we get back. That's extra weight, isn't it?”

Stonker laughed. “Thinking like a true Driver. It's extra but not much, no more than a kilo total, probably less. Your Lancer could put on more weight than that after a strong drink of water and a meal.”

“I'll think about it. So do you mind? A blanket would be pretty helpful. Sorry, can't stay long to chat, gotta get back to my Lancer.”

“Sure, I have an extra.” Stonker handed it over to him with a wink. “Get some rest, Driver.”

“You too, Driver.”

 

“Gamble's the bigger one. The little one doesn't have a name yet. If it does, it hasn't said it.” Morsov whispered as he ducked out from the lower hatch beneath the tanker, hands pressed against his tools to keep them from jangling. “They didn't fall asleep until a little while ago. Hard thing to do is to keep them from touching the goods. They'll try to eat stuff, don't let them. Oh, and they probably need more water and food. I gave them lots already and took 'em to the waste truck. But take them again when they wake up. And give them more water and food...”

“All right, Morsov. Will take it from here.”

“And Gamble's a thirsty pup, will drink all your water if he's not watched.”

“It'll be fine.” Dart clasped Morsov's shoulder lightly. “Go get some rest, crew.”

“If anyone asks where I am...” Morsov hesitated, but he had to tell someone; he couldn't just walk off without notifying one of his crewmates. “Gonna...uh. So. Um. Maybe...er go crashing out with a mate?”

Dart playfully mock-punched him in the bicep and Morsov did the same in return, though more awkwardly. 

“Good luck, crew. Go get 'em.”

“You too.” And then Morsov winced, embarrassed.

 

True to his word, Stonker was waiting for him just after dawn. In the early morning light, the tall War Boy's heavy coat of white gleamed, stained faintly red from the dusty dawn. Over his chest where the white had been applied in a lighter coat to show off his still-healing scars, the engine block in 3/4 profile stood out in pink-tinged contrast. He leaned against the shining chrome of his car, the silvery metal catching and reflecting all the colors of the world into a bright-hued swirl that chased the straights and curves of the vehicle.

At this time, Stonker was about 9,800 days old.

As Morsov watched from a distance, he saw Stonker absently fingering his black dust wrap, stroking the thin cloth between his fingertips as though recalling a fond memory.

Morsov smiled a little to himself, suddenly realizing that he would always remember this moment, impressing it upon his mind like the taste of a drop of blood.

Stonker hadn't seen him yet, but when he did, his entire face lit up.

“Morsov.” Without another word, Stonker drew him into an embrace, not caring who saw.

 

The curtains unfurled with a dusty rattle, and Stonker untied them one by one, blocking out the light. Morsov moved to do the same, helping him unroll the neatly tucked blinds around the car so they could sleep.

“Ah, I'm glad we have a proper day off. Nothing to do but wait it out, see what happens. It's like having a proper holiday, like a McFeast day. Do you think the Imperator's going to fight in the Thunderdome?”

“Dunno,” Morsov replied. “No one's said anything to me. Was inside the tanker all night watching the pups. And the Imperator was out in Bartertown.”

“Almost forgot you were hard at work.” 

“It wasn't that hard.” Morsov shrugged it off. 

“You underestimate yourself.” Stonker took Morsov's hand and kissed the little patch of bare skin at the back of his hands, where his fingerless gloves did not cover. He touched the straps that held the gloves on, and tugged at them gently. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.” And when they both went to undo the gloves, their fingers touched, stroking skin on skin. Morsov lingered over Stonker's long, slender fingers, only slightly stained from the work of the road and felt somewhat ill at ease at his cracked fingernails and grimy palms.

Stonker kissed his fingertips, one at a time, the hot wet tip of his tongue touching the calloused pads of Morsov's fingers. Morsov reached over to touch him, to stroke his palms over the curve of Stonker's chest, and Stonker smiled.

“Tell me what you want, Lancer,” Stonker whispered as he drew Morsov in for a thirsty kiss.

 

When Stonker's hand closed over his erection, Morsov's eyes happened to wander over the chrome-topped gearshift and as his breath caught at the pleasure of it, he wondered if this was how Stonker handled the car too, with a firm and decisive touch, stroking his palm over the smooth knob of the gearshift. 

Morsov moaned, reaching for Stonker's trousers, but Stonker gently brushed his hand away.

“No, let me.” Stonker's breath was hot against his skin, and then his mouth closed over Morsov's cock and after that Morsov forgot what he was doing, what he was trying to do, gripping the tall War Boy's shoulders tightly, though careful not to hurt him.

Stonker's mouth was hot but hesitant. He seemed to pause at the initial taste, but then he took Morsov in deeply, so that Morsov could feel the little hitches in Stonker's throat as Stonker sucked him off.

He reached for Stonker again, but Stonker gently guided Morsov's hands away from his belt, from his trousers. And then without warning, nothing seemed as important as Stonker's mouth on his cock, the brush of Stonker's lips against the curling hair of his groin.

It had never been like this before.

Morsov trembled, and when he came, he did so silently, choking back his pleasure as Stonker swallowed it down.

In a daze, he felt gentle hands tuck him back in, zip him up, and draw the blanket over his shoulders, settling a fold over his head to keep him warm. 

“Get some sleep, Lancer.” Stonker's lips brushed his cheek, but it seemed that he was already gone.

*****

Nux devised a plan to hang up the blankets as he walked back. Hanging them by closing the blankets in the doorframe wouldn't work very well, and neither would partially opening the windows and hanging it off of them; not all the windows opened. And then there was the problem of the front and rear windows...

By the time he made it back to his car he had worked out a solution. Nux dug out a cylindrical stack of strong magnets from his pocket and divided the stack in two, prying the magnets apart.

“That took long enough.” Slit said, coming back from the waste truck and Nux handed him half the pile of blankets and half of the magnets.

“Here, help me put these up. We'll hang the blankets up from the inside, that way they won't get dusty.”

 

In the artificial night within his car, Nux setttled back on the springy seat and considered taking his boots off. It was tempting, but he knew that they were supposed to be ready in case of any emergency, so he merely sighed, wiggling his toes in the leather. 

With the two blankets that belonged to them as a crew, Slit laid on one, spread out on the steel floor of the car, and they split the last one, covering themselves with the soft-worn fabric.

Slit shifted around on the floor of the vehicle, and Nux wondered if he was uncomfortable where he lay.

“How come you didn't sleep last night when I was on watch?” Nux finally asked. It had been a long second watch with Slit, who refused to talk to him or sleep, pacing at times and glancing eastward at the horizon as if personally offended that the sun had not yet risen.

There was a long silence, and Nux felt a little twinge of worry; had Slit taken it the wrong way? Was he going to be angry all day?

Suddenly, Slit spoke.

“I'm going to fight in the Thunderdome tonight.”

 

It took a few long moments for the initial shock to wear off, before Nux could trust himself to speak without starting a fight with Slit.

“Why...didn't you tell me?

“It's not that big of a deal,” Slit grumbled. “It's just the Thunderdome.”

“You could die.” Nux's toes curled up, and he could feel the tension waver through his entire body, tight and unpleasant.

“So? Isn't that what we all want? Death in battle. Not dying soft. Glory before length of days.”

“Yeah but...” Nux could not quite articulate the turmoil he felt, and reflexively, he reached over to touch Slit as if to assure himself that in the false darkness punctured by light seeping in around the edges and through the worn threads of the blankets, that Slit was still there. He could remember a time before Slit, but he didn't like remembering it; Slit was a constant in his life, as constant as the turning of the moon wheel. 

Nux fumbled for Slit's hand and gripped it tight. He had already nearly lost Slit once.

He tried to imagine a life without Slit, alone in the nest in the dead of the dark season, his own breath without its steadfast companion, and a pain ran through him, an ancient pain that he remembered only distantly through the blur of time. It was like a fine crack that ran through the deepest part of his heart, and it ached with a hurt that had become a part of him a long time ago.

“But what?” Slit shifted, and let go of Nux's hand. 

“No...no being Witnessed before your time,” Nux said lamely, and he thought of the long, slow progression of thousands of days ahead of him, a lifetime of days without Slit, and he felt so miserable that it seemed he could melt through the floor of the car, discarded like slag.

“I won't lose.” Slit's voice faltered briefly, but then he said it again, more vehemently. “I won't lose. You know that. And I won't die. Not going to let some pathetic feral win.”

“Course not.” Nux smiled weakly to himself, and gripped his half of the blanket tight.

It seemed he had somehow dozed off, for what felt like a long time. Nux realized that he was a lot more tired than he had originally thought. But now that he was awake again, he could not help but ask.

“Slit? Is there anything you want? Anything. I'd do it. Whatever you want.” 

“No. I'm tired.” Slit said crossly, but then he reached out to Nux, catching him by his top belt and giving it a tug.

Nux eased himself off the seat, squeezing onto the narrow floor beside Slit.

“Yeah? Something you want?”

“No, of course not.” But Slit put his arms around Nux, drawing him close, his breath soft against Nux's throat.

“You know, you can ask for more than a cuddle.”

“Shut up.” Slit shifted, his legs tangling with Nux, their tools clinking jangling between them and Nux could faintly feel the brush of Slit's lips against his white-creased skin.

*****

“Quiet.” Coil signaled to some young Lancers who were climbing around the steel bars of a support truck's utility rack, showing off their physical prowess to each other with dead hangs and pullups, handstands and flips. One had even been doing some kind of a lift where clinging to the strongly welded utility rack, the War Boy had hauled himself up so that his entire body was parallel to the ground. When he noticed Coil, he fumbled off the rack, landing awkwardly.

“Sorry, Coil.”

“Sorry!”

Quickly, the War Boys lowered their voices, remembering that many of their mates were still sleeping off a late night's watch.

Coil shook his head; it was like this all around the escort. A grizzled Moto-Lancer dozed underneath a pursuit vehicle, his buzzing snoring rattling the dust wrap shading his face from the sun. A handful of support truck Lancers huddled close with their best mates and gossiped quietly as they cleaned their weapons, looking up to greet their Drivers as they strolled past on guard duty. A Flamer and his second slept in the bed of the truck while their Driver worked on the engine, doing the regular maintenance of the road.

And though most of the War Boys had contented themselves to quieter games, drawn games in the dust, games played with pieces of colored and painted metal scrap, or wagering on the rotation and landing position of a tossed water bottle, there were those that were more daring like these support truck boys.

Coil shook his head. With this truck, he had finished a complete circuit of the escort. He stopped, looking around, realizing that the War Boys were impatient for him to leave, waiting for him to go so they could return to their games.

Sighing, he headed back to the War Rig.

She had been back for some time now. When he had woken up from a fitful night's sleep, he had heard her voice but he hadn't been able to face her. Making excuses for himself, first to the waste truck, and then to walk the escort to see to discipline, he had so far managed to avoid her but he couldn't put her off forever.

“Ace. In Bartertown, I...” And she stopped, her mouth tightened briefly in a line of frustration   
before she nodded to him. “Thank you for walking the escort.”

“No worries.” Coil stood beside War Rig, shifting his weight from foot to foot, not moving to come to sit with her and the Ace as he normally would have. “Sorry for interrupting.”

“Not at all.”

“You were sayin something about Bartertown?” The Ace asked and Furiosa shrugged it off.

“No, it was nothing.”

Coil could tell she was lying. Even the Ace gave her a puzzled look; she had never been able to conceal the truth, not easily.

He touched the red dust wrap, and wondered what she had to hide from him, what she could only say to the Ace that she couldn't say to him. And then he thought of Aunty Entity.

What had happened last night in Aunty's Palace?

“Coil?”

He heard her voice behind him, but he was already walking away. Those Lancers were getting too noisy again, Coil thought.

*****

“Coil?” But it seemed that he didn't hear her, so Furiosa turned her attention back to the Ace. Finally, she had a chance to talk to the Ace alone. Furiosa sighed, wondering how to tell him.

“Something you want to tell me?”

“I...yes. Well. Perhaps it would be easier if you just came with me,” Furiosa said, and the plan suddenly seemed so clear in her mind.

“Come with you?” The Ace looked puzzled, scratching the ridge of his brow lightly with the edge of his thumbnail, and tiny flecks of white flaked off. “Where?”

“Aunty's Perch. I was invited yesterday. We've been invited to court.”

 

“One of us should stay with the War Rig,” the Ace said again. “No, no weapons.” He patted his trouser pockets and held up his hands to the Imperial Guard, who waved them in. “War Rig Imperator or crew lead, one of us gotta-”

“Was that Acosta's rule?” Furiosa hid her smile as she strode into Bartertown, the Ace beside her. Once they were in, he put his goggles on again, to block out the bright sun.

“Well, yeah. War Boys got out of hand when we were out at that party, shouldn't have left them to their own devices. No one in charge keepin eyes on and they got into trouble...”

“Tran and Coil are in charge. Don't worry, Ace it'll be fine. They're reliable. They won't let anything go wrong. And don't worry about the rules. I'm making a new one. After all, necessity comes first.”

“Furiosa...?”

 

The queue of petitioners in front of Aunty's Perch was long, snaking around the base of the Perch and the nearby buildings but they didn't have to wait. It seemed that the Imperial Guards had been notified in advance and the guards waved them forward, to the head of the line.

Before the watchful eyes of the Imperal Guards the Ace said nothing, but he exchanged a look with Furiosa.

A tall guard, the same one from yesterday, with the long mane of black hair gestured for them to enter an open metal cage, and Furiosa glanced at the black feathers stuck through his hair and his armour; it reminded her of something that she could not quite place. The guard came with them, carefully blocking off the open side of the cage with a chain, as heavily muscled slaves turned the wheel lifting them up.

 

“A road warrior, Aunty. Interfered with the last fight in the Thunderdome.” The Collector said, gesturing to the shackled man held firmly between two brawny guards. 

From behind the obscuring veil of hanging plastic curtains, a throaty voice chuckled. “But he's just a raggedy man.”

Furiosa glanced at the feral briefly through the long flaps of plastic that separated the entry from the main central chamber of Aunty's Perch. Nothing much to see, just the usual look of a stray who had wandered in from the waste. Neither tall nor short, about the right height for a good Lancer, wearing worn black clothes that were no longer black, sun and salt stained into the color of the waste. Like many ferals, his face was concealed behind his long hair and beard, scruffy and matted.

She wrinkled her nose and looked away. Instead, she marveled at the graceful geometric arches that formed the inside of Aunty's Perch, as lovely as the Palace but more so as it had been built expensively in steel and aluminum, instead of stone. The harsh light of the sun was diffused through a wealth of luminous cloth hangings into a gentle glow that was pleasing to the eyes.

“Chrome,” she whispered to the Ace, who had taken off his dark goggles to see better in the low light, impressed at the beauty.

“He's trouble,” the Collector said, and quickly the two War Boys fell quiet, watching. Curious, Furiosa feigned inattention, glancing briefly at the pair of heavily armed guards that stood in the entry with them.

“Crowbar,” Aunty Entity said, and the tall guard with the long mane stepped forward through the curtains, leaving Furiosa and the Ace behind. “What did he do?”

“Distracted the fighters, Aunty. With this.” He held up something silver; Furiosa saw the gleam of it in his hand. He passed the object to Aunty Entity through the curtain separating her from the main chamber, and in the distance, Furiosa saw Aunty's silhouette in the low light, and heard the crisp click of her boots as she paced.

“Is that what it was?” Aunty Entity did not sound impressed, and she took a few considering steps, handing the whistle off to someone else, someone seated who Furiosa could not quite see clearly. “Road warrior, what did you do before this?”

The man shrugged, not saying anything, and Furiosa wondered if he even understood the question.

“Were you paid to interfere?” Aunty Entity asked.

The man shook his head, making a negating noise in his throat.

“Then why did you do it?”

The man didn't answer. Furiosa wondered if he couldn't.

“Play the whistle, Te Ao.” Aunty Entity ordered, and the hidden figure put the bright whistle to its mouth and played a long, piercing note, and as the sound echoed through the chamber, its shrill overtones decayed into dissonance.

“Tragic. What a terrible sound.” Aunty Entity said from behind the curtain. “Congratulations, road warrior. You've bought yourself a temporary ban from Bartertown. You didn't do enough to deserve a real punishment, but you're no longer welcome. Crowbar, he's to be banned for two seasons. If he's found on my turf during that time, break his legs. Get him out of here and send him on his way.”

With that, the road warrior was bundled out past them. Furiosa and the Ace stepped aside as the guards muscled him out to the lift, and the man struggled his way to a standstill, staring at her.

Their eyes met for the duration of a heartbeat.

The Ace stepped forward protectively, but the Imperial Guards were already dragging the feral away.

Blue eyes. Furiosa shrugged it off. That was the problem with Bartertown, she thought, anyone who could pay their way in could come; it was not a secure settlement like the Citadel. But a movement caught her eye and she realized that the heavily armed guards, in response to some signal she missed, had pulled open the curtains of the entry, revealing the chamber within.

“Imperator Furiosa. Please, come in. Honor my court.”

 

“Have you decided on a champion?” Aunty Entity asked, pacing slightly behind the curtains of her private chamber, and they could hear the gentle clink of her dress as it swayed about her hips. “Do tell me that you're not doing something as silly as putting on a costume to try to fight in the Thunderdome. Because that hand of yours would disqualify you immediately. There may be no rules in the Thunderdome, but augmented weapons are certainly not allowed entry.”

“Yes, Aunty.” Furiosa could hear the amusement in Aunty Entity's voice. “I've picked a War Boy.”

“Then you had better hope that he's good. Because word has it that a gladiator was bought last night from the market, and he's the best there is. A hulking brute, two and a quarter meters tall.”

“So he's big. How good is he in a fight?” Furiosa asked.

“He's won three editions of Thunderdome.” Aunty Entity said. “The first one bought him his freedom, and now this is how he makes his living, fighting and training others in the gladiator racket. No one else has ever won so many bouts. It's rather unusual.”

Furiosa and the Ace exchanged a look of concern.

“Of course, that doesn't mean I can't do anything. Te Ao, the whistle please.” 

The shadowed figure handed Aunty Entity the whistle, and Aunty Entity strode out from behind her curtain.

The Ace suddenly became very still when he saw her, and Furiosa gently touched his shoulder; from where she was standing, she could see that his ears had gone red, where bits of the white had flaked off overnight as he slept.

Aunty Entity gave the Ace a cursory glance, acknowledging him without addressing him. 

“Take it,” she said, pressing the whistle to Furiosa's hand. “I certainly won't know who interfered, if anyone does. In a crowd that big, the guards won't notice if one of your War Boys changes the outcome. And even then, what's the difference between one War Boy and another? We certainly can't ban the lot of you from coming to trade.”

“If you want us to win so badly, why didn't you just choose Death? Or some other punishment?”

“Because it's no fun that way. Besides,” Aunty Entity smiled at her, a sly, cunning smile. “This also brings out all the merchant alliances to the surface. A single small time merchant can't afford a gladiator this expensive; he's borrowing from all his allies and betting on winning. He stands to gain a lot if he wins. After all, he'd get the price of that gladiator back, his merchandise, and a certain amount of yours.”

“But why would...?” Shocked, Furiosa could not help the question from slipping out of her mouth.

“Don't be afraid of asking, my dear. You don't know our customs well enough. It keeps everyone in line if the factions don't grow too rich or powerful over time.” Aunty Entity smiled, and this time she could sense the danger behind the maquillage. “But enough of that. That's not the only reason you're here.”

“No, it's not. Aunty Entity, this is Ace. He's a War Boy.”

“Your champion?” Aunty Entity studied the Ace carefully, walking slowly around him.

“No, but a faithful friend of the Imperator Acosta.” Reflexively, her hand moved to make the V8, but she stopped herself. “He served the former Imperator loyally for ages upon ages.”

“Oh.” And at that all the pretenses seemed to drop, and she could see more of the real person behind the mask of maquillage.

 

Aunty Entity dismissed her court for recess; only a pair of Imperial Guards stood by, waiting outside in the entry.

The hidden figure of Te Ao stirred, and then the room was filled with the soft, sad sounds of music, played on an unknown, unseen instrument.

“You knew him. That is, Imperator Acosta.” Aunty Entity said.

“Yes Aunty, ever since he and I were about out of our puppy teeth,” the Ace replied politely.

“Then I think it's safe to say that we both have a connection to him. Can you tell me about him? What was he like?”

“Uh...” Flustered, the Ace gripped his top belt as if it were a safety harness. “Well. He was a good mate. Probably my best mate. Known him since we rescued him from slavers. Ferals crossing our patch, couldn't let them run slave trade direct on our turf. He had scars on his cheekbones like mine. And other ones, here and here.” the Ace gestured, drawing the scars of the desert initiation over his own lips and chest, the mark of the V8 that he knew so well. “Back then before he was one of us...he had long hair. Back then, it was near like yours, but longer, straighter. Never cut it before he came to us.

“And...we worked together in the Citadel after that. For a long time. He was younger than me, but he had a way about him. A commanding manner. Everyone listened to him. So we all followed him. He outlasted the other War Rigs, I mean, the other War Rig Imperators. Sujin, Otto...were there others? Well, he outlasted them all by ages, by more seasons than I can remember. Than most of the young ones can remember.

“Course we were best mates. He had another best mate too, Moki. They were real close. Moki's still alive, got traded to Bulletfarm... And he was real dignified, a strong leader. Honored the V8. Did what he was supposed to do, always. Always loyal, to the end. Gave his life protecting us. Witnessed. A real War Boy of War Boys.” With that, the Ace shut his mouth; he had already said more than Furiosa had expected.

“I see. Thank you, Ace. I appreciate it.” Aunty Entity touched his hand lightly. “You were a true friend then.”

“Yeah. Me 'n Acosta, we were mates for a long time. You ever meet him?”

“No. I never had the honor,” Aunty Entity said. “But he was not without his influence. Mother always said that he picked my name.”

“Oh? What's that then? With all due respect,” the Ace touched his brow politely.

“Alex.”


	14. Thunderdome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for canon-typical violence and bloodshed.

Drowsing in the late afternoon sun, Slit sprawled out on the hood of the car, watching the clouds skid across the sky, long straight lines of white on blue.

He thought about who would have his things once he was gone. Not that there was much to it; he probably owned more as a child but that was all junk, the trash treasures of a hungry boy in Bartertown. Not like his tools and his knives, his gear and his hexkey. Those were valuable anywhere in the waste, a fortune in goods. 

He had already taken all that out of his pockets, left it neatly and artfully arranged in the car behind the Driver's seat, so that he would lose none of it. So that it would all be there when he came back.

All but for some bits of scrap in his pockets and the long sharp blade of his bracer, which he kept in a deep pouch along his calf. He had made a few adjustments to it when he woke up, while Nux was still asleep. 

He crossed his legs, and his body felt strangely light without the weight of the tools, without the familiar heavy clink of metal in his pockets and pouches.

Beneath the car, Nux was humming tunelessly as he worked, checking the undercarriage and making little adjustments. It was just like Nux to spend a day off working, Slit thought, and he pressed his palms to the dusty surface of the car, feeling the delicious heat of the metal beneath his hands.

The color of the sky began to change, and for a moment, Slit wondered if it would be his last sunset. 

He shook off the thought as though brushing the dust off his hands.

“Oi, Slit!” He looked up lazily; Morsov was waving him down. “Imperator wants to see you. Nux too.”

*****

Furiosa had no idea where to begin.

There was no precedent for it, even the Ace had said so himself. War Boys went into battle together as a community; they did not pick champions to face giants. No War Boy fought alone; every War Boy had his mates by his side, his Lancer at his back, his Driver at his front, the War Rig Imperator leading. No War Boy had ever gone into battle alone, not like this. The Fury Road was ridden together; no single War Boy could ride it solo and expect to survive. 

The wheel gave and took and now it spun them for a strange turn, onto roads they had never traveled before.

After they returned from Aunty's court, she spent the rest of the day in the cab with orders that she was not to be disturbed, and laid on the back seat with the blinds drawn, light peeking through chinks in the curtains, a rare moment of solitude and rest.

She turned the whistle over in her hands. A silver whistle, a fight stopper. Give it to a War Boy, she had been told. Let him use it at a critical moment. No one would know or care.

And who could she trust with it?

She closed her eyes, thinking to rest just for a moment.

 

Darkness. The brilliant seep of starlight through the inky curtain of the sky. The new moon was a silver sliver of metal, sharp enough to draw blood.

“Let the Initiate now known as Furiosa step forward.”

Black feathers ruffling in the wind, the Valkyrie beckoned her forward, and gravel bit at the soles of bare feet. 

It was cold and the water was colder on her skin, so cold that it woke her up and when Furiosa opened her eyes she knew exactly what to do.

 

The entire escort was called to the meet, all but the War Boys on duty. They brought their tools, their gear, their water bottles and canteens.

“Gather round,” Furiosa gestured, raising her voice, pitching it to be heard. “Today we're readying one of ours to fight one of theirs.” 

An excited murmur passed through the crowd as they formed a large circle around her, but she knew that they already knew who it was that had been chosen; gossip traveled fast, even in a mob as big as this one. 

“Let the War Boy known as Slit step forward.” She modified the words as she went along, the words that were graven into her memory from the time she became herself.

Slit did as he was told, slowly and deliberately, and all around the War Boys began their chanting of the V8, until Furiosa cut them off with a gesture.

“Let him be purified and cleansed. Let him set aside his past, his name and his clan, and look only to the future, as a guardian of all our people. He is to be born anew, no longer the child of his mother but the child of the...of War.” And here Morsov whispered instructions into Slit's ear, giving him the gist of what he was to do and Slit began to take off his boots and his trousers, giving them to Morsov to hold.

The Ace and Dart brought the hose from the War Rig, and the Half-life Nobles washed him with the water drawn from the tank, scrubbing off his white, careful to use only what was necessary and no more.

Coil and Tran helped shave him, his face and his head, so that he was smooth and clean.

Slit stood naked, shivering, his wounds exposed to the world and there were whispers among the War Boys, whispers that were quieted by Furiosa's glare.

“War Boys!” She shouted, catching their attention, and they fell silent. She stepped forward deliberately, and remembered Aunty Entity on the gates of Bartertown. 

“War Boys.” She paused, until the silence was almost unbearable, and continued. “We have before us a champion, a War Boy of War Boys, who will fight for our people, who has vowed to protect our community, our sisters and our brothers. Who will clothe him? The hands of his...mo- brothers. Who will give him life? The hands of his brothers. Who will take take his death? The hands of his brothers!”

At that, Furiosa added a pinch of white from her own supply into a small metal vessel and passed it around. Quickly, the War Boys picked up on what she wanted, and all around the escort, War Boys dug into their pouches and added the powdered white until the vessel was nearly full.

“War Boys! Who will give him water? The hands of his brothers. Who will give him life?”

And here, she heard their words join hers, at first hesitant and asynchronous, and then louder and more cohesive. 

“The hands of his brothers.” 

“Who will take his death?”

“The hands of his brothers!” The chant grew and grew, and she took her own water bottle, pouring a few drops into the vessel of white before passing it around. By the time it came back, there was enough to turn the white into a slurry, and she handed it to the Ace to mix.

“War Boys! Who will annoint him?”

“The hands of his brothers!” 

She paused for a moment, drowned out by the words that she had spoken, that she had instilled in them and felt the power that she imaged Acosta must have felt, a strong, heady feeling the left her feeling giddy, lightheaded.

Focusing, she dipped two fingers into the mixed white and annointed Slit, leaving white streaks on his forehead, over his heart, and over his liver. Quickly the others added to it as the vessel was passed around. While they worked, she picked up a pair of spanners borrowed from the Ace and struck them together, the clashing sound of metal catching the attention of the Imperial Guards watching from the gate, of the War Boys on guard duty. Quickly, War Boys followed her lead, pulling out tools to clank together, synchronizing the beats like so many hearts beating together as one.

Slit finished, smearing himself all over with the white as he was told, even the places that were usually left bare because it made no sense to wear the white under clothing. Every inch that made him human was covered, obscured, and even his wounds disappeared beneath the heavy coat of white. He stood gleaming at the center of the ring of War Boys, a stark statue in the dying light of the world.

“Immorta! Accept the offering!” Furiosa shouted, circling him, metal clashing beneath her fists and her voice rising above the striking metal. “Accept this War Boy! He is yours!”

Slit breathed heavily, trembling all over, and he raised his hands slowly into the V8.

“By the hands of his brothers!”

“Immorta!”

“V8!”

*****

The roar of the crowd was like the rush of the wind through the waste, heralding a storm. A brilliant light flared up nearby, sending a pure white beam into the sky that he knew could be seen for miles around and here he was, seeing it up close again for the first time in a lifetime.

“Two men enter! One man leaves! Two men enter! One man leaves!”

“Welcome to another edition of Thunderdome!”

In all the ages of man that had passed since the founding of Bartertown, the ritual of the Thunderdome had stayed the same and the only difference, Slit realized, was that this time he was not one of the little kids, climbed up high to watch the fighting from above. He passed through the stink and tumult of the crowd lining the way, those that were too slow to find a good perch on the Thunderdome and in the excitement, he forgot to look for the great metal sign above the Thunderdome, that he knew would be lit up for the occasion. 

Slit ducked his head as he entered through the low door, and he wondered, was this because men in those ancient days were smaller? It made him feel bigger and stronger, a giant among men as he walked in, flanked by Imperial Guards.

And then he saw his opponent.

He was a child compared to this monster of a man, this brute whose name he had already forgotten, and the cold finger of fear touched his heart like the tip of a thunderstick, sending shockwaves through his body. If this were the warren, he would not be so foolish as to pick a fight. But then he breathed, like he had been taught, and started thinking. After all, who was it who had told him those ancient words, that fear was the mindkiller? The Ace?

Iron-girt and leather armoured, the Brute's arms were plated in metal and leather. Good. Every step the Brute made clanked iron. Good. His head was protected by a thick metal helmet. Good. All that stuff was heavy, would slow him down. Whereas without his tools Slit felt fast and light. That would be how he'd fight, Slit thought, go fast, move quick, get under the Brute's guard, kill him.

Doctor Dealgood was talking, working up the crowd; he ignored her and looked around at the weapons as they strapped him into the harnesses. Mace, a light smashing weapon, but no good against armour unless he was swinging it from an unusual angle, and that might not have enough momentum to kill. Sledgehammer, no, too heavy and slow. He was strong but it'd waste precious seconds getting enough heft. Chainsaw? That was a fool's game, the weapon was even slower than the sledgehammer, the action cumbersome, taking many seconds to start and with no more fuel in it than a few seconds worth. He saw a man once decapitated once before he could even get it started; Slit didn't have that kind of time.

Slit made sure to note where all the weapons were placed, quickly committing the order to memory and planning his first move.

His step grew springy as he was harnessed; the Imperial Guards held him by his belt to keep him from launching. When he looked over at his opponent, the guards escorting the Brute did the same.

Above, near Aunty's Balcony he saw the whitened shapes of War Boys clinging to the side of the Thunderdome and the Imperator, who stood beside Aunty Entity on her perch, but he did not look at them. They had let him pick some people he wanted to Witness this, and so he had picked Nux, Morsov, and the Ace. When they asked him if he wanted anyone else, he said the names of a few others he knew that he hadn't had much of a grudge against. It wasn't for him, he thought; it was for them. They'd appreciate the spectacle of the Thunderdome and besides, they'd see him rising high above the others.

 

Furiosa touched the Ace's hand lightly, and he turned to meet her eyes.

She pressed the whistle into his hand and gave him a knowing look, and he nodded, closing his broad hand over it to hide it from view.

 

Doctor Dealgood came up to Slit, mouth pursed in amusement and she gave him a sly look, eyes running over his whitened torso, his faded black trousers, lingering briefly on the hard plane of his chest. She turned, showing the crowd the elegant length of her black-clad body, her black robes pooling about her ankles.

She spoke to him as though he were an outsider, as though he would not have known the ways of Bartertown. But she spoke to him during a lull, as they waited, and only loud enough for him to hear.

“It's simple enough,” she smiled at him coyly. “Get to the weapons, use them anyway you can. Kill him before he kills you. Bartertown's rules are many but the Thunderdome has only one: Survive.”

“Yeah,” Slit felt the scar tissue pull tight on his mouth as he smiled, and she touched the tip of her finger to the metal in his grin. “Yeah, yeah.”

She stepped away. All looked to Aunty Entity, waiting for her to speak the ritual words, and she stood from her throne, the light glinting silver off her chains and there was a hushed expectation to the crowd.

“Remember where you are.” Aunty Entity invoked. “This is Thunderdome!” The crowd stilled in the pause, so quiet that Slit couild hear the tidal rush of his own blood in his ears. 

“Death is listening, and will take the first man that screams.”

Remember who you are, Slit said to himself. A War Boy, a Fukushima kamikrazee War Boy. A full-life War Boy still far from chasing his half-life. He had known pain, he had known fear, and all those things he set aside because he could almost taste the blood of his opponent.

“Prepare!” Doctor Dealgood and the Imperial Guards scattered, running out of the cage of the Thunderdome as the guards standing outside held their feet, the springy harnesses dragged to the edge of their tension.

“Remember who you are,” he murmured to himself, as the guards began pulling him back.

Today was his day, his day to fight. 

His day to live.

“By my deeds, I honor him,” he said, and he raised his hands into the V8. Immediately the chant began, loud and even the Imperator was shouting for him.

“V8! V8! V8!” 

And he was off.

 

With a sickening burst of speed he flew across to the other side of the Thunderdome. Two seconds, he thought, it took about two seconds to get to the other side. Slow business compared to riding high as a Lancer and he twisted, spinning out of the way as the Brute came at him, trying to get in a cheap hit before going for a weapon. 

But Slit had already grabbed a knife in the first launch, nothing more than a peapod sticker, barely the length of his forearm but it would be enough, more than enough; the heart wasn't that deep below the surface. 

The Brute was heavy, and it kept his gravity low. Good, Slit thought, and he launched himself off the iron frame of the Thunderdome, aiming for the Brute, not going for a direct hit; that was too dangerous, but to test him, see how fast he could react. He nicked the Brute's chest as he flew by, and the Brute reached out, trying to grab him, to crush him into submission but Slit twisted mid-flight, tucking his arms and legs, giving the Brute nothing to grab onto as his momentum dragged him back up toward the top of the dome.

He kicked off again, this time going for the legs, and nicked the Brute's calf, a glancing blow that drew red. The Brute roared, and tried to catch him again but again Slit was too fast.

A thousand cuts, Slit thought, even a thousand tiny cuts could bring down a giant. Teeth-gritted he went back again, with a Lancer's steady nerves. 

The Brute had managed to get himself moving again after briefly struggling in the center, but once he got going, he was fast. Slit lost his advantage; suddenly the Brute seemed so much faster, his bulk lending to his momentum and Slit barely dodged out of the way in time as the Brute came at him.

Slit tightened his grip on the knife and launched himself at the Brute. Glancing blows, beneath the armour. The words ran over and over again in his mind like a chant, and he went for it again and again, until he suddenly realized what the Brute was doing, inching his way over to the sledgehammer.

That would make things far too risky and much more difficult, Slit thought; with the Brute's long reach and the long length of the sledgehammer, even if the Brute was slow, he would add handspans to his ability to hurt Slit. One blow and it'd be over before Slit could even realize it, the shortcut to an ignoble grave. 

So Slit changed his strategy, and he came in this time more daring, much closer to the Brute, getting a cut in, but it cost him. On the backswing, the Brute caught the right side of his head with a glancing punch, smashing his ear.

The pain was immediate, hot and glowing and he laughed because that ear didn't work anymore, hadn't worked for a long time. Using the strange new angle of motion that the blow gave him, using the pain and the fierce rush of adrenaline that came with it, Slit recovered and came back again, hitting the Brute below the elbow, slicing him open. Blood splattered as the Brute reeled back from the long metal pole of the sledgehammer and all around the crowd screamed their delight.

Emboldened, Slit came flying in but at the very last second, the Brute pulled something out of his boot and when Slit came in again, the Brute slashed at him with a small knife and it caught Slit, slicing open the old wound. Slit could feel the metal of the knife catch on the staples, and they were torn out in an instant.

“Not so pretty now are you?” The Brute laughed at his own joke.

The pain caught up a moment later but Slit had already felt it before, so it was no surprise. After all, he had been living with it for all of his life.

Blood poured down his face, and he was forced to retreat as a dizzying array of spectators surrounding him screamed their bloodlust. Slit pressed his hand to the back of his cheek, trying to keep the blood in. He grit his teeth against the pain, not making a sound; he couldn't afford to lose blood this fast, and he knew that time was now against him; he had to move fast so as not to bleed out.

The Brute put his knife away and grabbed the sledgehammer before Slit could stop him. With a fast kick of his feet, Slit launched himself to the other side of the Thunderdome, away from the Brute.

 

The Ace closed his hand tight on the whistle, feeling the metal bite into his hand.

 

If it had ever been a game, it no longer was a game. The Brute no longer toyed with him, trying to catch him or swat off his glancing blows. The Brute was ready to kill. Now every attack had to be perfectly timed and calculated, but Slit was a fast learner and the Thunderdome an unforgiving teacher.

There was no more room for error, now that the Brute was armed.

Dancing, dodging out of the way, Slit rolled away from a well-placed hit, and saw the heavy thump in the dust, heard the iron strike the ground hard enough to crack the hard-packed soil. He ran to the edge of the cage to gain tension in his harness and in a flash he was at the top of the dome, through the wide opening at the very top. He caught the lip of metal with his free hand, and hauled himself up. Gamin, those ragged children that ran the streets of Bartertown, moved back for him politely, giving him space, their eyes filled with awe as they looked at him, at his sweaty, dust-smeared white and the blood pouring down his face, splattering his chest. He kept himself steady, his feet on the Thunderdome, even as the harness tugged him down, the straps straining.

Stars fought their way through the bright lights of Bartertown to glitter the night sky, and the wheel moon smiled down upon him. 

He realized he was right in front of the massive Thunderdome sign, and he saw the word flash brightly, searing into his eyes.

_Live!_

The wheel of Fortune turned inexorable, and now Slit would be raised up.

Slit knew what he had to do.

It was too risky to go for another weapon; the Brute below could launch up high enough to grab him, but he needed more than just the knife in his right hand; he needed both hands fighting. Tucking the knife in his belt, Slit pulled out his bracer blade and in one quick motion, it was connected to the hard platform of his bracer. He checked it, feeling that it was secure, and unsheathed the knife from his belt. 

One knife in each hand. Slit gripped the iron bar of the bracer.

Slash and cut, Slit thought, and as the Brute began to raise his weapon, he dove down for the kill.

Two seconds.

He moved fast, both hands whipping forward in tandem and before the Brute could fully raise his weapon, Slit had drawn two deep lines of blood across the Brute's chest, tearing through his skin.

The Brute screamed and the noise of the crowd grew thunderous. 

“Two men enter! One man leaves!” 

In a flash, the Brute dropped the sledgehammer and struck out with his fist. When it connected, Slit went into a dizzying spin. Blood seeped down the side of his head, and he could barely see out of his right eye. With a brutal, well-placed kick, the Brute sent Slit crashing away, and Slit could feel the crush of bone in his torso; the ribs were cracked badly, probably broken.

Quickly, before the Brute could get in another blow, Slit scrambled away, somehow managing to launch himself back up into the protective heights.

The pain was intense, but he had hurt more and worse before. But unlike the past, this time he had iron in his hands; he was not helpless. Lightheaded he laughed, choking on his own blood, spitting out gobbets of red and then the pain caught in his chest, far worse than before. Cautiously he felt at the ridge of bone and the pain was so much worse that he wondered if his ribs had splintered and had punctured through his liver, giving him moments to live.

If he was going to die, Slit thought, then he was going to pave his way into Valhalla with the Brute's blood.

“Make way for me to Valhalla, Brute!” he shouted, his raw voice cutting through the screams of the crowd, “Make way!” And with his left hand, he went for the chrome, hung on that special loop on his primary tool belt, the one he had kept clear until he was initiated as a Lancer and was given the precious canister.

The chrome flask glinted in the white light of the Thunderdome, and it was cold in his hand, clinking against the metal bar across his palm.

“Immorta! Accept the offering!”

“Slit, no!”

“Witness him!”

“Witness!”

The cold rush of the chrome filled his mouth, his throat, stinging his wounds bitter and when it hit his intake, everything seemed to go silent around him.

He saw the open mouths of the crowd before him, shouting, chanting, but he heard nothing.

Blood mixed with chrome dripped from his lips, splattering his chest.

The pain disappeared and there was nothing but glory before him, spread out on a path of blood and dust. The Brute moved to heft the sledgehammer over his shoulder, but his movements seemed slow, as if time itself had stopped for him, generously giving Slit a few long moments of life to enjoy before death.

“Valhalla!” One shot, and he had better make it count. Slit dove down, leading with his knives.

*****

It was almost like a proper McFeast when they returned to the convoy; the Half-life Nobles had taken piece of bent sheet metal and put their stoves under it until it was piping hot. Every War Boy threw in a food bar or two and handfuls of dried nuts or fruit. Mixed with drawn water from the War Rig and a few healthy slugs of food oils they had traded for the day before, they cooked up a fine communal feast of crisped mush. War Boys sang and talked, committing Slit's deeds to memory, and the ones who hadn't come to see him fight clamored around the others, begging for all the details.

With a damp shop cloth, Nux washed the bloodied white off Slit's body, fussing over him. 

Slit stood very still in the bright light of the War Rig's headlights. On top of that, all the Drivers had brought their lanterns around and the bright light surrounding him was almost blinding. But that pain was nothing compared to the stitches.

Coil sewed up Slit's face neatly, inside and out. The blood had washed off the chrome and he had cleaned out the wound with pure water and antiseptic before sewing it up. New staples were found and sterilized in fire, and Coil carefully added them to support the stitches, so that everything would hold together.

“Whoever stitched you up last time did it too tight,” Coil said as he tied off the stitches and cut the thread with a knife. “Your mouth should be able to move better and open wider when it's healed. The trick is this last stitch at the corner of your mouth, they overlapped the skin too much here last time and so everything was too tight. For the record, that's also how hems get messed up.”

“Mmm.”

“Try not to talk if you can help it.” Coil wiped off his hands. “There, all done. Driver, you can have your Lancer back.” Coil patted Nux heartily on the back as he left. “Make sure to come by for some food, we'll keep some warm for you.”

“Thanks, Coil. Will do.” Nux rinsed out the cloth and continued to wipe him off. Slit winced as the water stung a long cut on the back of his arm that he hadn't noticed before.

“Mm?” He looked at the cut and Nux intuited what Slit wanted to know.

“Oh that? That's just a scratch. But you want to know what happened. Well, it was right at the beginning. You went flying by a spike and clipped it on the landing. You didn't notice? No, of course not. You were too busy trying to get the knife.” Nux's mouth tightened into something that almost resembled a smile. “First blood of the fight and you did it to yourself.”

“Hmm.”

“It's not mediocre. It's chromer than nearly anything anyone around here has ever done.” And Nux pressed his lips to the little wound to distract him. “There, all better. Want me to kiss all your hurts, to make them go away?”

Slit pointed to his cracked ribs, and Nux kissed the black-bruised skin gently. Then, without Slit's prompting, he kissed Slit's bruised and torn knuckles, injuries that Slit didn't even remember receiving, licking the seeping wounds clean. Nux then kissed Slit's bloodied ear, his temple, the black crust of blood flaking off against his scarred lips.

And then suddenly he leaned in and kissed Slit's lips.

“I'm proud of you, Slit. You did us all honor. You're a hero of all time, mate.”

Slit said nothing for a long time, but then he pointed to his own rear and Nux laughed.

 

Afterward, in the privacy of their car they lay apart. Nux had given Slit the Driver's seat; he deserved it, after that fight.

Drowsy from pleasure but not quite tired enough to sleep yet, Nux thought about what he had seen after the fight. The Imperial Guards had dragged the merchant away, out of his perch at Aunty's Balcony; that man was ruined, and all his allies with him. The merchant went without resisting; there was nothing he could have done. He had gambled with Fortune, paying to stack the odds in his favor, buying his own justice and Fortune had been thrown him down; the wheel had turned, crushing him.

So much for Fortune and Justice.

Guards had hauled out the gladiator's body; they were going to throw it out of the gates of Bartertown. That's what happened to losers. The Wretched beyond the gates would tear him up to shreds and sell those shreds.

“How did you know that the deal was crooked?” Nux asked sleepily, remembering that he had meant to ask.

“Know him.” Slit's voice was low, quiet, and though the words were mumbled, Nux understood him.

“The merchant? From back when you were a boy? Was he the one that cheated you?”

“Nnn.” Slit made a negating sound.

There was a long silence, and Nux wondered if Slit had fallen asleep, but then Slit spoke in a garbled whisper.

“He's my da.”

*****

Long after the feasting and the revelry was over, the Ace sat in the Driver's seat, turning the whistle over in his hands. When the War Boys of the second watch walked by, he greeted them with an upraised hand as they waved to him.

“A good thing we didn't need to use it,” Furiosa said once she got into the cab of the War Rig. Instead of heading to the back seat, she sat in the passenger seat. Outside, the wind whistled cold, and she shut the door behind her, shivering.

In the icy moonlight, the Ace looked like a statue of bleached bone, but for the faint motion of his breathing.

“Been a long day,” the Ace finally said after a long silence. “Should get some rest.” 

“I know.” But she made no motion to move.

“Almost lost one of our own.”

“Didn't come close,” Furiosa replied. “You were right, he was a good choice. Thank you.”

The Ace sat silent, mouth closed, and Furiosa wondered if he wanted some privacy, but then he spoke again.

“Aunty Entity. She said he named her Alex. She said that Acosta had insisted on it.” 

Furiosa bit back her words.

“Alex...” the Ace sighed. 

“It's a good name,” Furiosa said. “A strong name.”

“That's my name too.”


	15. Chapter 15

“What's your name? You can tell me,” Morsov asked again, more gently this time, but the little pup said nothing, shaking its head. It no longer shied away from Morsov, but stayed close to him, pressed against his side.

Light streamed in through the top walk, chequered and latticed, staining his white with shadow and Morsov sighed, letting the pups rest against him, their scratchy gray clothes chafing against the bare skin of his torso.

“Why don't you just give it a name and be done with it?” Dart asked, as he checked the shelves full of goods inside the tanker, making sure that everything was secure and fastened down so that fragile packages would not be damaged and heavy goods would not slide around. “Isn't that how it usually works?”

“Names are important,” Morsov said. “Wouldn't want to be stuck with a bad one.”

“Good point. But did you consider the possibility that maybe it doesn't have a name? Or has forgotten it? Sometimes that happens when they're little like this. Something bad happens to them, and they forget their names, the faces of their families. Even forget how to talk sometimes or worse, have to be retrained to control their water and waste. Can it talk?”

“Sure, but it doesn't say much. Would prefer if it told me its name, don't want to just be giving it any name. Seems like a heavy responsibility. How were you named?”

“Couldn't tell you,” Dart said. “Probably an Imperator named me? I hear they name a lot of pups. It stands to reason. After all anyone born in the Citadel who's a War Pup has an Imperator for a father.”

“Wonder if maybe I should ask Furiosa-”

“Ready?” The Ace poked his head in through the lower hatch, peering around. “Everything loaded and secure? Yeah? Good, we're heading out in ten.”

 

Nux tightened the last few bolts, and Stonker gave the seat a wiggle, making sure that it was secured, bolted tight.

“Thanks for letting me borrow your Lancer's seat,” Nux grinned, putting his tools away and wiping his hands reflexively, habitually attuned even though they were clean.

“Sure thing. You just make sure your Lancer gets home in one piece, all right? His goods are already knocked around enough without you swinging your car around like a madman,” Stonker joked, and the two tall War Boys exchanged a few mock punches.

“Oh, he'll be fine. He's always fine.” Nux smiled stiffly.

“Are you getting another Lancer to ride provisional?”

“Yeah, one of the support truck boys is riding in the basket on the way home.”

“Good to hear that someone's watching your back. Let's go get your crewmate moved inside, he can't stay out back like that all day.”

“He likes sunning though. Just like a lizard on a rock.”

The two walked to the back of the car, where Slit sat watching the other War Boys busying themselves getting ready for the long run back home. A grizzled Moto-Lancer roared past to position once he finished refueling. A support truck Driver shouted orders to his crew and the young Lancers moved quickly in practiced harmony, checking tire pressures, fluid levels, and putting away loose tools. A Flamer and his second huddled over their flamethrower, carefully lighting the pilot light and turning on the fuel line. The second flinched back and blew on his singed fingers, and the Flamer gestured for him to lick the scorched flesh, soothing the burn. 

“Come on, Slit. Time to go.” Nux offered Slit his hand and Stonker did as well.

“Can get up on my own,” Slit muttered, teeth gritted against the impending pain but in the end, he let the the other War Boys haul him out of the basket. It had been a mistake to sit there, he thought, the deep angle of the basket meant more strain getting out, even though it felt good to lie back against the hot sun-baked steel. 

They helped him around the vehicle to the passenger seat, and Nux eased Slit down into the seat, careful not to jar his healing ribs. He picked up a blanket from the back seat and tucked Slit in.

Slit's eyes narrowed, but Nux murmured, “It'll help heal faster, if you keep warm.”

Slit growled.

“Your Driver's right. Don't want to catch cold, Lancer. With broken ribs like that, coughing so much will end you.” Stonker smiled. “You're lucky to have a best mate looking out for you! Got busted up pretty good there, Slit, those are some historic bruises. Try not to fight anymore ferals, all right? At least not until your chassis is patched up.”

“Hmm.” Slit shrugged it off.

*****

Steady beneath her hands, the wheel of the War Rig kept Furiosa tied to her body even as her thoughts wandered. Dreams of the green place stirred through her, seeping into her working day and when she pressed the back of her forearm to her nose, she thought she could still smell a hint of that green soap beneath the iron scent of a War Boy.

The blue sky over the waste was the same everywhere, all over the ruins of the world, and she wondered if someone in the green place was also looking at the same sky.

But then her thoughts were replaced by more concrete concerns. The run was profitable, but was it as profitable as it should have been? They were a day behind, how far would that cut into their supplies? Would they run short? What if they had to break into the traded goods if there weren't enough food bars? Or would it be better to let the crew run low? Would the crew still trust her? Would there be consequences for eating some of the tree oils? It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now regret set in and Furiosa was wondering if being short would be cause for punishment.

They had turned a tidy profit completely by accident. Word of mouth traveled fast: the next morning after Slit's victory in the Thunderdome, curiosity had drawn many to the War Rig for trade. They sold every single metal staple in the convoy; War Boys had turned out their pockets and their vehicles looking for more staples to trade. Someone even traded staples for more staples, and then turned around and traded those again, after having Slit hold the sharp-toothed metal pieces in his hands. Knives were going for even more, and some War Boys had parted with pocketknives for small fortunes in goods. A few War Boys had even set up shop burning brands for the Bartertown curious, the most popular being those similar to the ones running down Slit's spine. Trading had turned into a miniature festival and so many people wanted to see the War Boy that had bested the giant that they ended up bundling Slit away into a pursuit vehicle with its windows covered and curtained, to keep him from being disturbed.

A heavy rattle shook her from her thoughts. It was the Ace, landing on the top of the cab, a sign that something was seriously wrong and needed immediate attention. If he had come down merely to talk or to ask a question, he would have climbed along the side of the rig, to the crew lead's perch.

With the pounding of his fist, she slid open the top door. “What's wrong?”

“Boss! You see it? Storm clouds on the horizon, coming in from the east.”

Furiosa's breath caught. On the edge of the horizon what she had mistaken for a distant mountain ridge were instead clouds, strangely dark and close to the ground, roiling up into the air with the gathered dust of the waste. 

“Do you think we can outrun it?” But already she could answer that for herself; the storm was right in their path to the Citadel. Outrunning it would mean heading back the way they came, going off course to try to circle around it. They were already in hostile territory, hours from stopping having just refueled, and she quickly calculated how far they could go off course without running the risk of running out of fuel. It was not far enough; storms like this could be over a hundred kliks wide and even then they might not be able to outflank it, not with a fully laden tanker.

“No. Need to get to higher ground, sit it out,” he replied.

“There's a big ridge up ahead. How much time do you think we have?” 

“Maybe got about twenty, thirty minutes before the storm hits.”

“Maybe less.” She turned the wheel toward the ridge and sounded the horn twice, pushing the War Rig into higher gear.

 

“Morsov! Storm's coming. Close the storm doors and get out of there!” The Ace shouted to him from above, and quickly from inside the tanker, Morsov closed the storm doors; that way dust from the impending storm would not seep in through the open grate of the top walk.

The pups watched curiously. Morsov tied a blanket around each child's shoulders over their drab clothes and began to hurry them out from the lower hatch, into the poisoned sunlight of the impending storm. He closed the lower hatch, bolting it shut.

All around the escort, the War Boys were preparing for the storm. The Ace was checking the fuel pod, making sure it was secured. Above, Tran and Dart were in the front gunner's nest, securing the radios, bolting on covers to protect the mechanisms. Moto-Lancers were chaining their cycles in pairs to heavy support trucks, weighing down both sides evenly. Support truck Drivers were hurrying their Lancers into the cabs of their trucks or sending extra Lancers off to ride out the storm in pursuit vehicles and even the half-rig, counting each War Boy to make sure no one had been left outside. Flamers and their seconds had already turned off their flamethrowers and were covering up the weapons with tightly tied wrappings, making sure that everything was chained down tight. War Boys squeezed into support truck cabs, into escort vehicles, even the cab of the hulking half-rig.

Coil swung down from the tanker, his boots rasping against stone.

“Everything all right?” Coil asked, as Morsov took the children's hands, one in each hand.

“Yeah, it's fine. How much time do we have left?”

“About ten, fifteen minutes? Put the assets in pursuit vehicles, and then come shelter in the cab with us.”

“Which ones?”

“It doesn't matter, as long as they have glass.”

“Sure.” Morsov hurried the boys along, heading toward the back of the convoy.

“Why can't we stay in there?” Gamble asked, pointing back to the tanker.

“Bad ventilation,” Morsov said. “Come on, pups. Let's go. First the waste truck, then a place to stay.”

 

Slit waved them down on their way back up through the escort, through the open window of Nux's car. Nux was in the back in the Lancer's basket, securing the thundersticks, having dismissed the temporary Lancer to hunker down with his regular support truck crew.

“Oi, Slit!”

Slit's face was impassive; black-flecks of drying scabs clung to his face, the wounds angry and red under the shiny layer of clear protective ointment and he pointed to Gamble.

“Are you sure? Didn't want to leave you minding assets while you're poorly. Can leave it with someone else so you can get a good rest.”

Slit rolled his eyes and he pointed to Gamble again, gesturing for the child to get into the car.

Quickly, Morsov checked that the windows of the vehicle all had glass. 

“All right, if you're sure. Will pick it up after. Make sure it stays warm. Give it some water and food when you have some yourself; fed and watered it already at the last break so it should hold for a few more hours and...”

Slit grunted and made a dismissive sound, waving Morsov off.

“Heard it all,” Nux said as he hurried by, covering the intakes as he went along. “We'll take good care the assets, mate, won't be any trouble at all.”

Morsov helped Gamble into the car, squeezing back behind the Driver's seat to sit on the floor behind Slit.

“Stay back there, and don't cause any trouble,” Morsov said. “And keep that blanket around you, it's getting cold.”

A moment after Morsov left, Gamble climbed up from the back and into the Driver's seat, shrugging off the blanket.

 

The little one clung to Morsov's hand; the storm was blowing strong, getting closer. The shadow of the great hulking monolith of clouds blotted out the sun, and it grew darker as wind stirred the child's loose black hair, the blanket whipping around him.

“Come on, we'll ask Stonker if you can ride with him. He's a nice War Boy, you'll like him. And then I'll go to the War Rig, like I'm supposed to, and pick you up after, all right?'

“No, no, please. I wanna stay with Morsov,” The child clung to Morsov, his golden eyes filled with tears.

“It's okay.” Morsov picked it up, hoisting the child up against his hip. “Promise, you'll be fine. Stonker's very...very nice.” Small for its age, it seemed light, and Morsov could imagine it grown up to be a Polecat, swinging high. He quickly walked past the full support truck, heading back toward the War Rig as the storm loomed ominous, churning with dust and sparking with lightning. Thunder boomed quickly after the crackling threads of electricity and already he could see the sand slithering in sinuous waves along the ground, twirling around his boots.

Stonker and Bucket were already inside their vehicle when Morsov came by. He glanced at the War Rig behind him and at the massive storm ahead of him. His crewmates were already in the cab, getting ready to settle down for the duration; he should be joining them.

Stonker opened the door. “Need something?”

“Mind taking a pup?” Morsov said apologetically. “Need to put them in vehicles with glass.”

“Sure.” Stonker stretched out his arms to take the child, but the child clung to Morsov, shaking its head.

“No, no, no!”

“Come on, come on...” Morsov tried to coax the child out of his arms, but suddenly Stonker grabbed him by his belts, dragging him into the car, slamming the door shut behind him. 

“Oy, oy, oy!” Morsov fumbled, trying not to crush the crying child in his arms and then the car jolted, shaking from the impact of the winds.

“Sorry.” Stonker steadied Morsov in his arms before Bucket helped him down onto the floor beside the Driver's seat. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I'm okay.” Morsov patted the child, holding it against his shoulder as its tears cut rivulets through his white. “Shh, it's okay. We're safe. Look, I'm here with you. Didn't leave you behind.”

“Looks like you're stuck here with us for the duration, Half-life Noble.” Bucket grinned, showing a mouthful of sharp teeth. “Welcome to the Elvis car.”

*****

“Is Morsov in there?” Furiosa asked. “Ask the Driver if he's there.”

The Ace clicked the torch on and off, signaling the car beside them in heliograph code, and through the haze of sand and dust, the reply was faint but unmistakable.

“Good.” The Ace crumpled against the frame of the door with a sigh of relief. “He's there. Thank the V8, the Immorta, and all the stars in the sky. He's safe. Safe and sound, just waiting it out like the rest of us.”

“Good. Tell him to shelter in place and wait out the storm.” Without Morsov to worry about, Furiosa settled back in the Driver's seat and began to unfasten her hand, setting it on the floor. With a sigh she stretched out cramped muscles, and loosened the laces of her support belt. 

Perhaps a few hours, perhaps a few days. It was hard to tell with storms like this; the only thing she knew for certain was that anyone caught out in it had a low chance of survival.

Behind her, the Ace put away the torch, settling back on the leather seat.

“He's in the third car. The Elvis car. Are they calling it the Stonker car yet?” Dart asked, peering over the Ace's shoulder. 

“Nah, probably not gonna change names this time around. Grinding down the body don't count as enough modding to be a redesign. 'Sides, now that Elvis is an Imperator, the name's probably going to stick.” The Ace crossed his arms, settling back to relax.

“Didn't he spend the night over there already?” Tran said, amused. 

“This will be the third night in only a few days.” Coil smiled indulgently. “Seems like he's found a new friend. Oh, our little Stonker's all growned up...”

“I remember when Stonker was just a pup and used to chase us around the shops wanting to play,” Dart said.

“I'd say he's got more than a friend in Morsov. Would put money on best mates,” Tran added.

“War Boy's affairs is his own,” the Ace said. “Ain't none of us got the right to dig around in his business, not unless it's affectin the crew.”

“Sure, but we're his crew, if anyone's got a right to twist his screws, it's us.”

“Right you are, Tran,” Coil chuckled.

Furiosa ignored the gossip and stared at the sky. Twisting fingers of cloud formed in the murky darkness above, twirling past the convoy below the ridge and she held her breath, waiting for them to pass. A far larger tornado touched down on the plain before them, a massive pillar of swirling sand and cloud that stretched up into the sky. She craned her neck to see where it terminated, but it was impossible to tell, the winding column went straight up, beyond her field of vision.

It roared past the ridge, making the vehicles around them tremble at its might.

As the storm blew, it began to grow darker and darker, settling into an eerie twilight and soon the sound of the storm was so loud that the gossip died down. Currents of windblown sand rattled against the windows, winds lashing the War Rig so strongly sometimes that the entire cab shook and the War Boys huddled together as it slowly began to grow colder.

*****

Stonker set the torch down, handing it over to Bucket, who held the light under his chin and grinned, revealing rows of sharp-filed teeth.

“Rawr,” Bucket chuckled, pulling a face.

“Don't,” Stonker warned. “You're scaring the pup.” He pointed to the child, who had tensed up all over, its small hands balled into tight fists.

“All right, all right.” The Lancer clicked the torch off, putting it away into a tool box beneath the Driver's seat. “Sorry kid. Swear I'm not a scary boy, it's just the teeth, is all.” Bucket showed a mouthful of sharp teeth, touching the jagged edges with the fleshy pad of his thumb. “See it's just teeth, nothing to be afraid of. Mark of a fighter where I come from but just a normal War Boy otherwise. Plain ole Bucket the Lancer, at your service.” He closed his mouth and grinned. With his teeth covered, his long face was pleasant, almost comical.

The child stayed close to Morsov, but his hands relaxed.

“And that's Stonker. He's a friend,” Morsov said soothingly.

The child looked up at Stonker, looming over them in the Driver's seat. It looked at Morsov, at his darkened forehead and eyes, and then at Stonker, who like most other Drivers only darkened his eyesockets.

The child climbed out of Morsov's lap and moved over to Stonker, to look at the simple device at the center of the wheel, his hands running over the smooth leather-wrappings.

Morsov threw up his hands in exasperation.

“See? Everyone prefers a Driver!” Bucket laughed. “We got our introductions done, now what?”

“Anyone hungry? Thirsty?” Stonker asked politely.

“Guessing you'd be a lot hungrier and thirstier if me and the kid weren't here,” Bucket joked, and Morsov felt himself go hot beneath his white.

“Buckie! What a way to talk in front of the child.” Stonker patted the boy's head, ruffling his black hair. The boy flinched away from Stonker's touch, hauling himself out of the Driver's lap and returning to Morsov. “Sorry, didn't mean to startle you,” Stonker apologized. “None of us are as scary as we look, not even Bucket. He's a good War Boy, does what he's supposed to.”

“Most of the time.”

“All of the time,” Stonker gave him a look. “Look. We're all normal people under the white.” Stonker took out his shop rag and wetting it a little, wiped his face and his neck clean, revealing the tawny, golden skin beneath. He rubbed the last bit white off his full, curving lips and smiled.

Morsov cleared his throat and looked away.

“Weird.” Bucket made a face. “Is that what you look like naked? Wait. Have I seen you before without the white?”

“Oh, I'm sure you have,” Stonker said, waving it away. “Decontamination, right?”

“Now that I think about it, you always wait til everyone else is done...practically when they're all already headed to the mess,” Bucket said thoughtfully. “You're always late to supper after runs.”

“Because I have work to do and I might as well do it instead of trying to fight my way into the decontamination pool. It's too hard to wash with a pile of War Boys jostling over the same patch of water,” Stonker said quickly.

“Yeah, one time when I was a Revhead, someone pushed me all the way in to the deepest part in the middle. My cohort mates had to pull me out. Really very scary when your foot can't touch the bottom,” Morsov joined in, coming to Stonker's aid.

Stonker took out his water bottle and a container, mixing himself up a small batch of white. “Don't think that anyone in the warren has ever died that way, but I hear water can kill.”

“Water's weird. Too much of it on the inside or outside is deadly, is what I heard.”

“Me too.”

“You know, you're lucky, Driver.” Bucket pointed at Stonker. “You don't have to ever shave. Me, I gotta do it twice a day if I don't want someone up the line coming down it to give me the business,” Bucket said, stroking his bristly chin. “See, shaved this morning before heading out and already it's growing out. Don't even want to talk about shaving my chest and my back...that takes forever! Back home Bristow does it for me but out here I'm mostly on my own.” Bucket cupped his hands over his chest. “Stonker, you can count yourself lucky you don't have to shave so much.”

“Mine doesn't grow that fast,” Morsov said. “Shaving maybe once every two or three days is okay enough for me. But not everyone has to shave their body too. I don't. The Ace doesn't. Actually lots of War Boys don't.”

“Have to shave sometimes. It's just that mine doesn't grow very much at all. Lots of War Boys are like this,” Stonker said stiffly, as he reapplied the white to his face with his fingertips, making sure to cover every inch of his face. “Look pup, the white is just to protect the skin from the sun. I think some people call it maquillage or makeup?”

“Maquillage is like that colorful stuff that important folks wear around their eyes and on their lips, to gussy themselves up,” Bucket argued, and then pointed to his darkened forehead and eyesockets. “This doesn't count. This is just makeup to keep off the glare.”

“We just call it the white. It's not makeup or...that other thing.” Morsov shrugged.

“Everyone wears it once they're a War Boy. Even if you got pointy teeth like me.”

“And the black warms you up when you're riding high,” Morsov added, pointing to his forehead. “When the wind is cold, but the sun heats up the black.”

The child pointed to the white and then to its own face. “Can I?”

Bucket laughed. “You don't have to. You're already almost as white as the white! Look at this kid! Could probably get away with running around naked.”

“Don't listen to Bucket. You'd have to wear a lot since you're so pale,” Stonker explained. “To keep the sun from hurting your skin.”

“No, you can't wear it yet.” Morsov interrupted. “Gotta wear the brand first, and then they'll let you wear the white.”

“Oh right.” Stonker nodded. “Forgot about the brand.”

“The brand?” The child asked.

“Oh sure, we all wear it.” Bucket twisted around in a motion like water and nearly as flexible. He pointed at his brand. “Everyone who's one of us gets to wear it. Hurts worse than a scorpion sting when it's first put on but once it's healed it doesn't bother you ever again. Most of the time I forget that it's even there.”

“It only hurts for a little bit. It's how we know who we are. That we belong. That no one gets stolen, and we're protected. So that we're one family, all of us together. This shows everyone else we would do anything for each other,” Morsov said, repeating the words he knew by heart.

Stonker finished, and took out his jar of petroleum ointment, the naturally black type that was made even blacker by mixing in lamp soot. “Here, pup, you can't wear the white yet but if you like I can draw in your eyes and mouth, like us. That's allowed, right? Not breaking any rules here.” Stonker looked to Morsov.

“Should be fine,” Morsov said. “Ointment's good for the lips. The air, it's very dry out on the waste. If someone complains, we'll just wipe it off.”

“Hey wait, should we worry about uh...diseases?” Bucket pointed at the pup. “Did the kid get quarantined yet or something?”

“It was bought from the official Bartertown Underworld dealer. They run a clean shop,” Morsov said. “All their goods come pre-quarantined and certified healthy. Besides, it's been with us a few days. If it was so sick, it would have showed the sickness signs already.”

“See, it's fine Bucket. Good and healthy, nothing to worry about.”

Stonker gestured for the child to stand beside him, and the child steadied itself holding onto the shift stick. “Here” He carefully darkened the child's eyesockets, and drew its dry lips in black to seal in the moisture, marking in a few vertical lines over its lips.

“A real War Boy of War boys now, ain't ya?” Bucket grinned, and Morsov held the pup up to the rearview mirror, so that it could see its pale reflection in the storm-poisoned darkness of the world.

 

“Why don't you tell stories?” Bucket suggested, and Morsov could feel the child in his arms perk up a little at the suggestion.

“Stories?” The child's voice was soft but clear.

“Yeah, Stonker here tells the best stories. He's heard 'em all. Learns new ones all the time from other War Boys and tells 'em good, with all the different voices. Even knows all the songs if there are songs,” Bucket said.

“All right, I can tell stories. Which one do you want to hear?”

“Something scary. Like those tales about the black bug monsters with the mouths inside of their mouths, the ones that bleed acid when you shoot 'em,” Bucket pantomimed, and Morsov winced, feeling the child tense in his arms.

“No, that's not a suitable story for pups.”

“Thought you heard it when you was a pup,” Bucket said. “Heard you tell that one at the last War Games after dark. Is it true that someone always pisses themselves when you blow out the light?”

“Oh, that can't possibly be true. But that's different. That's War Games, where no pups are allowed. Trying to be a responsible War Boy right now, Bucket.” Stonker waved it off. “Not like some War Boys who will remain nameless.”

Jokingly, Bucket half-raised his hand before doubling over laughing, his voice raucous. “Okay, okay.” He looked at the child. “Seein it makes me think, what about those stories about the un-Lived dead? The diseased ones that chewed up entire cities of Before. They're really hard to kill and back then everyone had a plan against them, in case of attack. Uh, what are they called again?”

“Cannibals?” Morsov wondered, and then he winced.

“No, no. They look just like that pup, with ragged clothes and hair, and their eyes and mouths all black.”

“Zombies,” the child suddenly said.

“Right!” Bucket laughed. “Immorta! This kid knows what I'm talking about! Zombies! Imma call you Zombie from now on. The Zombie kid!”

“Be serious, Buckie,” Stonker said, exasperated. “Don't go running around naming people without their permission..”

“Hey, it said so itself!”

“You like that name?' Morsov asked, and the child nodded reflexively. 

“Zombie is okay.” Zombie said, and tried to pull scary scowl much like Bucket, only not as effective with its grimace full of gaps from missing teeth.

“No stories about zombies. Those aren't stories suitable for pups,” Stonker sighed. “And we shouldn't talk about the un-Lived on a storm night like this. That's asking for trouble.”

“Then what about the un-Witnessed? Heard lots of good ghost stories from my support truck mates about-”

“Bucket! No stories about the un-Witnessed. I don't know any stories like that and you should never ask,” Stonker said sharply, his jaw tight with tension. “You know those aren't tales that are suitable for anyone. Some people know War Boys who were...”

“Then how bout you tell that story with the man made out of icy water from the sky. Or no, wait. The woman who is molten fire. Not the Immorta, the other one, the one with the stolen heart.”

“All right. Sure.” Stonker took a deep breath. “One quick story, and then we'll get some rest. It's really blowing out there, isn't it? Soon it'll be too loud to hear. All right, how does it go again? Once upon a time, in the world of Before, there lived a child whose home was on the sparkling sea...”

*****

If he put his boots up on the coolant tank, and maybe if he stretched out like this...and then Nux slid off the guzzoline tank, ending up briefly wedged between the seat and the tank.

“Why do I have to be in the back?” Nux sulked as he dragged himself up, trying to get comfortable in the tangle of extra tanks of coolant and guzzoline behind the seats.

“Cuz 'm hurt,” Slit mumbled, feeling the pull of the stitches in his mouth and he tucked the blanket comfortably around his neck, eyes half-closed.

“I know that. But that doesn't explain why the pup get to sit in the front. I'm the Driver!”

“Cuz I want 'em to.” In the growing twilight of the storm, Slit reached over to make sure that Gamble was tucked in, ignoring the aching pain in his ribs. The child whimpered in its sleep, tensed up like a coiled spring and Slit patted its back gently until it relaxed again, falling into a deeper more restful sleep.

“Slit!” Nux whispered sharply. “That's my seat!”

“Shh. Don't wake 'em.”

*****

Dart's head dipped until it rested against Tran's shoulder, but he suddenly jerked up as if trying to keep from falling asleep.

“Sorry.”

“That's it for us, it seems.” Tran yawned, stretching his arms. “This crewmate and I, we're going to call the crawlspace and call it a night. Any objections?”

“Go right ahead,” Furiosa said, her voice echoing through the grand interior of the War Rig. “There are extra blankets in there, why don't you bring some up before you settle down? It's getting cold.”

“You want us to put something heavy over the hatch or not?” Coil joked.

“And make me use the back hatch? If I could lock it from below, I would,” Tran said with a wink. “Come on, Lancer, let's get you to bed.”

Dart mumbled his objections sleepily, but then climbed down into the crawlspace. A couple of blankets were brought up from storage, and a moment later the hatch shut behind the two War Boys.

“Come on.” The Ace clasped Coil's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Let's get outta the way, let the Imperator lie down.”

“Sure.”

 

Coil opened the round flat mirror and the first thing he saw before he saw himself were the familiar cracks that ran through the glassy surface. He held it up in his hands, ostensibly checking the growing stubble on his face, but really he was looking back at her, at her wavering reflection in the cracked looking glass.

The storm grew louder, shaking the War Rig.

Furiosa was lying down, the back of her hand pressed to her face and he could tell that even though her eyes were closed, she wasn't asleep.

Her fingers flexed thoughtfully, and he wondered; had Aunty Entity kissed it, the soft skin of the back of her hand? And had Aunty put his arms around her shoulders? Touched the curve of the small of her back with his hands, feeling the bony lines of the support belt that Coil had last laced up himself? When she came back, she needed the Ace to help her tighten the laces but he wondered, how had she managed to get it back on without help?

How had it come off?

A hot feeling filled his belly and he closed the mirror with an audible click that he realized could be heard even over the howling winds of the storm.

The Ace was looking at him, and then Coil realized that the Ace must have been watching him the entire time. Coil wondered if the Ace could see it on his face, the embarrassment that seemed to burn through his body.

The Ace stared at him for a long moment without saying anything, his gray eyes unreadable, and he then pointed to the Imperator's water bottle, sitting in its specialized holder. He pointed to Furiosa. _Go_ , the Ace gestured with his outstretched hand, his face looking grim. 

_Go_.

Coil nodded, and grabbing the bottle, headed back to her.

 

When Coil came to the back bench, Furiosa sat up, the blankets tangling around her, and she gestured for him to sit beside her. It was too loud to talk, too loud to be heard over the howling winds of the waste, and so without words he offered her the water bottle.

She took a long drink, the muscles of her throat moving and the slightest hint of wetness on her lips afterwards made a strange feeling go through Coil; did Aunty Entity get to see that too? Press his lips against her water-wet lips, hers that had never kissed anyone like that?

Not even his own.

But then she offered him the bottle as well, like the old days before she became Imperator when they would sit squeezed together in the Lancer's basket, arms around each other's shoulders, drowsily watching the stars after a long run, waiting for their turn at inspection and he took it, feeling perhaps ungrateful for questioning her loyalty to him. After all, all these years and if anyone had been disloyal, it had been him.

He remembered the Polecats and then wished he didn't.

But then he remembered Aunty Entity.

Holding the bottle, Coil hesitated, unsure if he should drink. Because it was one thing to be a War Boy at the War Games, everyone knew what that meant, what that was good for. But going with an outsider was unforgivable; loyalty first to the Citadel and its brother settlements, always.

A movement caught their eyes; it was the Ace, and he was unhitching the rolled up curtain that separated the back of the War Rig from the front. He gave Coil a particularly pointed look, and then with a snap the curtain fell down, separating the two halves of the War Rig.

So it was like that.

 

It didn't take long for Coil to drink as well; it was foolish sitting around with an open water bottle, losing water to evaporation and besides, he was thirsty and it didn't have to mean anything. Water was water.

He recapped the bottle and she took it from him, setting it in the hollow of the doorframe.

They sat looking at each other for a long moment. Furiosa glanced at him and then at the back of the Driver's seat where the Ace sat. She seemed puzzled, staring at the curtain with a look of surprise and confusion.

“Don't act like you don't know. Did you put him up to this? Or is this more of his scheming? What's all this about?” Coil spoke, trying not to speak loudly so that the Ace would not hear.

Furiosa gave him a blank look, and he realized that she could not hear him.

So he leaned in. “I said, don't act like you don't know.”

Furiosa shrugged and tapped her ear, miming that she had not heard.

And then suddenly Coil wished it was Win who was here instead of Furiosa, Win whose sharp eyes could read the words off someone's lips from across an entire shop if necessary and had on more than one occasion, physically expelled a Revhead from his shop after seeing what the Revhead was saying even though he had not heard it. Win who could read the expression off someone else's face so clearly that Coil later would realize Win generally had no idea what other people's bodies looked like, what they wore, only that narrow strip of eyes, nose, and mouth seemed anywhere near important to Win.

Then he realized that maybe Furiosa didn't know that he had been upset. After all, he realized, she didn't really even know much about Win.

He leaned in closer.

“Was worried when you were gone. Did...anything happen?' He said it right into her ear, his lips nearly brushing the tender flesh of her earlobe.

She shook her head, and leaned in, and when she spoke, the heat of her breath tickled his ear and it left a tingle of sensation running down his spine. “I had dinner with Aunty, talked a little and went to bed. Slept in a great big bed, a real one made of plant fibers. With a green blanket! And the food was good. I washed up, too. Twice, in clean water both times. Can you believe it? It was like when I was...it was nice up in the Palace. Really nice.”

“Slept in a great big bed? By yourself?” He couldn't help but ask.

She suddenly laughed, doubling over. “Yes, of course,” she said into his ear, the words blurred by the sound of the storm. “Of course by myself. I'm sorry I had to send you back. I wish you could have stayed with me. You would have liked it, and it wouldn't have been so cold at night by myself.”

By herself. It eased his worries, and he started seeing it for what it was, Imperator business. The kind of relationships the Imperator had to build and maintain for the sake of the Citadel. She had no choice in the matter but to keep Aunty Entity sweet for the sake of business and hadn't he always known that Acosta had to do the same? 

Touched, Coil drew her close. “I was mad you sent me away. But...maybe I'm over it.”

“Maybe?” Furiosa gave him a sharp look. “What do you mean, maybe?”

And for a moment it irritated him that she was annoyed, that she doubted him. And why couldn't she be more like Win, who had a sharp tongue but a soft heart, as opposed to her who had only a stony heart that was so hard to reach that it might as well have been the distant moon. Early on in their partnership, it took ages for them to even be able to sit this close together, much less touch. And she had always been so difficult to talk to, nothing like Win. Furiosa was almost no better than a feral when he first knew her, skittish and cold, flinching at every touch. Playful Win would have known it was a joke, and would have played the game with him, the game of pretend annoyance and then they'd make it up to each other later with kisses and...

And then he remembered that Win was gone. Gone for good, gone forever. Win had been gone for so long that now that when Coil did the count as he no longer did as often as he used to, he realized that he was now older than Win had been when he was killed.

A cold jolt ran through him, and he found himself bent over at the pain, as sharp as it had been when the wounds were fresh, scarred and healed injuries seemingly torn open in a single motion. 

It had been a long time since he felt this way.

“Are you all right?”

Coil nodded, but he could feel the tears threatening in his eyes. He quickly blinked them back; it was inappropriate after so long to still be mourning a lost crewmate. When it had first happened, he had mourned enough for a lifetime, but sometimes it never seemed enough.

His hand reflexively touched the spiraling brand on his chest, the first one that Win had given him, and certainly not the last.

“I'm fine.” He murmured into her ear. “Just a little cold, that's all.”

“Tell me sooner next time,” she said into his ear, and with a motion, tossed her warmed blanket over him, taking up the folded blanket that had been under her head and shaking it out, wrapping herself in it.

Lightning flashed in a blinding white jolt and simultaneously thunder roared, rocking the War Rig. They both flinched and reflexively moved into each others arms, eyes dazzled by the brightness.

“I think it hit the rig.”

“Yeah.” Coil blinked, eyes half-blinded from the flash of light.

He gripped her tighter, and she did too, pressed close together against the onslaught of the storm.

A fold of the her blanket had ended up over his nose, and he took a deep breath. It smelled like dust and steel, the scent of the storage crawlspace beneath the War Rig but it also smelled like her.

Only...

He leaned in as if to speak to her, and he could smell the familiar scent of her sweat, the faint metallic tang of the chromed petroleum ointment she used to darken her forehead, but beneath that all, a new sweetness that he had never smelled before, like fresh water and something else, something faint that he could not quite identify. Coil took a deep breath and another, and then realized that was a mistake; he was almost giddy from it, that delicious scent that clung to her skin.

“Coil? Are you all right?” Her breath tickled his ear, and her lip grazed the flesh there and it took him a long moment to understand what she was asking because of the electric shocks of pleasure running up and down his spine.

He nodded and took her hand, kissing the soft flesh at the back of her hand.

She gave him a puzzled look. “Was that a promise?”

“No. I just wanted to kiss you.” This time he let his lips touch her earlobe as he spoke, and he felt her shiver go all the way through her, down to the leather-bound bench of the back seat. 

And then it hit him that if no one had ever kissed her before, why shouldn't he? If no one was going to go for the gap, he might as well and all of a sudden it seemed silly to him that he had put it off for so long. He wasn't about to let the likes of Aunty Entity outpace him. Even if Aunty had a better vehicle, Coil had better placement; mere seconds separated him from Furiosa.

So Coil leaned in and she did too, and in the dust-colored darkness, he caught the signal from her eyes as clearly as if she had gestured it herself with her hand.

_Go_.

Her lips were soft, and she tasted like water. Not the water of the Citadel, hard and metallic, nor even the water of Bartertown, soft and mineral. But perhaps it was like the water of Valhalla, that ran from horizon to horizon, boundless and endless in a green world, massive and unknowable.

 

In the storm-filled darkness Coil could no longer see her, but with his arms around her he loosened the laces of her support belt further. He felt her breath against his throat catch as it came off entirely, revealing the soft cloth of her new shirt beneath it, still slightly damp with her sweat. He stroked his hands along her sides, where the shirt covered her flesh and when she hesitated, he knew it was because she didn't know very much at all and needed him to be the Driver in this too, just like those early days when she was his Lancer.

Win had been like that as well, never having been with anyone else before so Coil had to be patient, even though Win was older. It had taken a long time for Win to warm up to him, but once he did the ignition was hotter than a furnace blast. So with Furiosa, Coil suddenly felt that he was in familiar territory again, carving his vehicle through roads that he recognized, and so he didn't do more, just kissed her and held her close, letting her feel warm and secure, waiting for her to feel comfortable enough to take the wheel herself. Then he'd know where they could go, riding together as they always had, moving as one through the endless wasteland, with the intimacy and working rhythm that only a Driver and Lancer had together.

Had they kissed before? Surely they had at least touched lips once or twice in the past but never like this before, long delicious sips and gulps like fresh water on a sun-bleached day, on those rare days when it grew so hot that the white threatened to slide off of sweat-slick bodies and often they had to stop the cars to let them cool off and breathe. 

Pauses, pauses were important, easing off the clutch and accelerator. Lift and coast, lift and coast, and so he merely held her for a while, the smooth flesh of her bare-shorn head tucked between his shoulder and neck.

Her breath stirred against his white-creased skin and the longing for her was delicious, but Coil waited, taking a certain satisfaction in the aching anticipation. He pressed his lips to her forehead.

His left hand was on her bare right arm, and she held it there herself, with her one hand, the blankets tangled between them. With his right hand, he cupped the empty place of her lost hand, and he imagined she could feel the heat of his palm over the smooth scars.

Finally, she turned, speaking softly into his ear.

“What are you doing, Coil?”

“Holding your hand.”

*****

Moonlight bleached the wasteland to the color of desiccated bone, and Furiosa cuddled closer to her Driver as the cold wind tore past them, shivering the light frame of the FDK. Coil put his arm around her so that her back was not against the cold metal strut of the Lancer's basket. The tangle of shared blankets they had wrapped around themselves was not thick enough to fully protect them from the burning cold of the metal, and Furiosa was so thin, so slight that sometimes he worried that the cold might kill her.

Coil smiled sadly to himself. She was so inexperienced, no better than a young Revhead in many ways, the kind of youth that older Drivers sometimes took advantage of because of their seriousness and sense of responsibility. One could almost forget that she was a War Boy for true when she wasn't riding the Fury Road.

It made Coil feel even more protective of her, drawing her close when he felt her shiver.

“Are you all right?”

“Sure. Of course. Do you think it'll storm?” Furiosa asked.

“Hopefully not.” Coil shrugged. “Sometimes there's just wind for its own sake, with no real malice behind it. The waste trying to shake us off its back, but not trying very hard.”

“Oh.” Furiosa closed her mouth.

“What do you think about during storms, Lancer?” Coil asked, changing the subject, hoping he hadn't offended her, but she stayed close to him, tugging the doubled blankets around themselves tighter.

“The gr-...that is, the great moaning sounds of the wind,” she replied. “Look, a shooting star.” 

Furiosa pointed at the night sky, tracing the afterimage of the arc of light with her outstretched left hand.

“Oh.” And the gleaming flash that tore across the night sky in a burst of bright light stole their attention away, and a moment later neither of them could remember what they had been talking about.

*****

Coil opened his eyes; it had been a little dream, the kind he had sometimes when dozed off for a few minutes. The past and present melted together briefly; he was still a Driver, she was his young handsome Lancer, and they were together in the cold star-bright night together, their breaths steaming the air between them.

Brilliant flashes of lightning illuminated her face, the bare curves of her chest, painting her as white as a War Boy and he could almost forget that she was his Imperator now. Furiosa looked at him very seriously and leaned in. Coil leaned in closer as well, tilting his head, wondering what she had to say to him but then she caught him by the chin and kissed him hard.

Already she had taken the wheel, and a lot faster than he had imagined. But then, Coil thought with a smile, she was always a quick learner, his Furiosa. 

Surprised, he found her holding him tight in her arms, strong from all those years of wrestling the wheel on the Fury Road, and then when he dug his fingers into the tensed muscles of her back, of her shoulders, he could feel the moan pass through her, even though he could not hear it over the howling wind.

Her skin was warm, and it felt like the friction between their bare skin, separated only by his thin coat of white could heat them up despite the dropping temperatures around them.

He wondered if this was all she wanted, heated kisses that sent his pulse racing as fast as if he were driving against the best of the Buzzards, but then her wandering hand brushed over the front of his trousers, and the aching hardness there grew almost unbearable.

“Furiosa,” he gasped, and she kissed him again.

 

Coil slid his hand between her legs, feeling the soft brush of curling hair and pressing his palm flat against the hot wetness there and she shuddered against him. He had always known she was different; after all, how often had they decontaminated together? A long time ago when he was a young Driver, it had been shocking to realize Furiosa was so very different between her legs, strangely lacking. Back then it had occurred to him before to wonder what he would do if he ever faced this situation. But all those old memories, memories of curiosity, of fantasies seemed to pale in contrast to the realty of her hips grinding against him.

A flash of lightning illuminated her face and he saw the pleasure livid upon her lips, her mouth open in gasping breaths that he could not hear and when she shuddered hard against him in a spasm as the thunder boomed around them, he was glad that the ferocity of the storm rocked the War Rig, covering their motions.

Coil brought his hand to his lips, her dampness and her scent upon it and with a sigh of pleasure he licked his palm.

So Furiosa would rest now, Coil thought, and they would doze together, and it was all right if that's all she wanted, because whatever else she wanted, they could wait. After all, how long was it that he had to wait for Win? Almost an entire season, and back then the longing felt as though it would nearly kill him, but now it seemed like a sweet memory of a time long past and Win had been right, the waiting had been worth it.

But then Coil felt her hand fumble at his top belt before finding the belt of his pants and wondered what that meant until her hand slipped into his trousers and wrapped tight around his erection.

With her other arm hooked around his neck, Furiosa pulled him into a tight kiss and a long breathless moment passed between them as he felt himself harden even more at the touch of her Driver's hand, her grip strong and sure. 

Determination followed hesitation. Coil could feel it; he had been her Lancer and of course he knew her mind. So he merely kissed her, pressing his lips to her throat as he let her decide where to drive, what to do, and then when Furiosa shifted her weight he followed, just as he had always done, would always do, riding the road she chose for them together. 

Soon she lay beneath him on the broad back bench of the War Rig, not touching him. He wondered if the leather-bound seat at her back was too cold for her, so he shifted the blankets, drawing her up briefly against his chest to slide a blanket beneath her back, tugging it flat so that she would be comfortable.

As Coil set her down, Furiosa's hand wandered over his chest. In the darkness between flashes of lightning, she touched his whitened brands, tracing the spiraling coil over his heart.

“Whatever you want,” Coil said into her ear, settling her back down beneath him onto the back bench, his lips brushing against the tender lobe there that he could not help but kiss as well. “And I'll go wherever you want.”

Uncertainty became certainty when Furiosa pulled him close, her hand gripping his top belt fiercely, her hips pressed to his, and for a moment he fumbled, unsure of what she wanted until she guided him, her leg curving around his buttocks to encourage him forward.

Before he could ask if there was something he should do first, find the ointment for example, if that's what Furiosa wanted, or perhaps there was some other way she wanted to ride together, she guided him in with her hand.

He was amazed at how easily it went, hot and slick and tight, and for a moment all he could do was breathe. But then at her insistence, he moved, slowly at first so that she would grow accustomed to it, so that he wouldn't hurt her, and he felt her moans, her cries vibrate through her chest to his but then he realized that some of that could also have been him, but they were pressed so tight together that he wasn't sure, her legs wrapped around his hips, her breath fluttering beside his ear.

The storm surged and with it so did Coil. They moved together like the smooth motion of the engine at high rev, pistons moving in synchronization, and then the ticks of their timing belts aligned so precisely that when he came he knew she did too, her muscles tightening and gripping him, and he could thought he could almost hear her crying out with the pounding thunder as he gasped out his pleasure, shaken by the intensity.

*****

His breath stirring warm beneath the red dust wrap, Coil ran the plastic bristles of the brush over the palm of his hand briefly, loosening broken bristles and shaking them off before setting it to the War Rig's intakes, brushing off the sand and silt. He had woken before dawn, stirred awake by the stillness; the storm was not quite yet gone then but it had softened, blown out its fury into a gentle breeze that stirred the sand, and the faint gray light of the predawn darkness peeked in through the dust-covered windows.

They had fallen asleep together on the back bench, naked limbs tangled together, and when he moved his head a little as he woke, the icy air that seeped in made her draw closer together to him in her sleep.

His breath steamed before him, and he drew the blanket back up over their heads.

On the other side, he could hear the Ace stir, shifting in his sleep and it was then he realized they couldn't be found together like this.

“Driver,” he said softly, the barest whisper in her ear, and immediately she was awake, tensed and ready to fight.

“Shhh, shhh...it's okay. It's just me.” Coil kissed her gently, and she drew him close with her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply, and he could feel the stub of her wrist brush against the bare skin of his back.

“We can't stay like this,” he murmured, feeling the bare skin of her body against his, and the memory of her body made him instantly hard again, though he knew they couldn't do it now.

Furiosa nodded and in one swift motion, sat up, gasping in the icy air, shivering and drawing a blanket around her shoulders. The cold had been like being suddenly thrown into water and he quickly-

Hollow thuds all around as War Boys knocked the dust and sand off their intakes, digging out their vehicles, and it shook Coil from his thoughts.

He licked his lips beneath the cover of the dust wrap, wondering if he could still taste her sweetness on his mouth.

“Done?” Furiosa came around from the back of the War Rig where she and the Ace had been inspecting the fuel pod connections, making certain they had held through the storm. She caught Coil's eye, and a bright look sparked between them like lightning.

The support belt was cinched tight around her waist. He had tied it up for her himself that morning, lacing it up completely by touch in the darkness before dawn.

“Just about. We can head out soon.”

“Tran? Dart? What's the status on the escort?”

“No bricked engines, Imperator!”

“Escort's good!” Tran shouted, climbing up the side of the tanker and helping Dart aboard. “They're ready to go when you are.”

“What about Morsov? Where's that other pup?” 

“Ah, it's riding with Number 9. Do you think that's a problem?” Morsov held a War Pup in his arms, the boy's eyesockets darkened like a Driver's. “Is that okay?”

Furiosa briefly glanced at the Ace and the Ace shrugged, adjusting the shoulder strap of his rifle.

“Number 9's an enclosed Morris Minor with a single Lancer. Pup should be fine.”

“Fine.” Furiosa said as she belted on her arm. “Get that pup aboard, Morsov! Back gunner's nest, both of you. It's too fine of a day to be stuck in the hold. Come on, let's go!”

 

With a rumbling growl, with the roaring of revving engines, the convoy turned off the ridge and back onto the long road home.

She heard the clatter and thud of a heavy body leaping from the front gunner's nest onto the cab. From the sideview mirror, Furiosa saw a flash of white; it must be the Ace, come by to hang out on the crew lead's perch. 

But instead, it was Coil.

He smiled at her, strong hands gripping the leather-bound windowsill.

“How's it going, Imperator?”

“Just fine, crew.” The barest hint of a smile upon her lips, and their eyes met briefly before she turned her attention back to the waste before her, the lead pursuit vehicles ahead kicking up clouds of dust as they flew across the open plain, the impossibly clear blue sky above them.

Above in the front gunner's nest, the Ace broke into song, a raucous work song, a rhythmic driving song for the road. Soon, other voices in the escort joined him, Lancers rattling their spears in time to the tune, and she and Coil joined in as well, laughing when they mixed up the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the conclusion of the first part of the Ekstasis. The next chapter is already partially written.


	16. Fortune Rota Volvitur

Black pillars of smoke towered into the sky above them, welcoming them back. When Furiosa glanced to her right, she could see the black-clad Gastown War Boys standing guard, waving to the convoy from their perches on the great steel gates, each bar thicker than a man's wrist.

In the distance, iron derricks grew as thick as trees, dented metal gleaming silver like running water and for a brief moment Furiosa felt a pang of longing for that secret green place inside of Bartertown. Feigning an itch, she pressed her nose against her shoulder, but she could no longer smell the sweet scent of green soap; time like everything had scoured the scent away, rusted it off her skin.

“Signal the towers.” Gripping the smooth metal knob of the gear shift, Furiosa downshifted as they turned onto the Immortan's Road near the gates of Gastown. Ahead, the Lancers riding on the leading pursuit cars glanced back and alerted their Drivers, who adjusted their speeds accordingly.

“Yes, Boss.” At her word the Ace shifted his weight to free his right hand, waving to the War Boys in the front gunner's nest from his perch beside the Imperator. A moment later, Dart was on the heliograph, flashing the coded message to the Citadel with an exacting beat, announcing their arrival as the rest of the convoy turned onto the Immortan's Road.

Last to leave the Citadel, the War Rig was the first to arrive. As they made the final approach to the Citadel, the swift pursuit vehicles parted, falling back, letting the War Rig take the narrow gap between them. Dusty and weary, all the Lancers and Half-life Nobles stood on their vehicles, even those lower-ranked Lancers that merely stood second or third or fourth to their higher ranked mates. For their stately return to the Citadel, they returned as they left it, on their feet, riding in glory.

As the convoy turned into the shadow of the War Tower, the hordes of the Wretched cheering their long awaited return. Their success meant another season of survival, the strength of the Citadel reinforced and reinvigorated, enriched from trade in distant lands.

A day like this was a holiday, followed by a full rest day and a McFeast tomorrow night. Even Furiosa could feel the excitement of returning home, like an electric pulse that zipped through the convoy as they passed through the mass of the Wretched scrambling to get off the raised surface of the Immortan's Road, scattering like wind-blown trash, their rags fluttering in the wake of the heavy vehicles.

There was a heady sense of power to it that made Furiosa feel proud, to stand above the others. She slowly stopped the War Rig, parking it deep into the crack that ran up through the heart of the War Tower, the head of the War Rig nearly touching the heavy metal gate that protected the Citadel's guzzoline supplies so that the tanker was set square upon the platform, balanced at the center of the metal plate.

The Half-life Nobles sprang into action, unhooking the tanker.

Last one down was the first one up. Pushing open the door, Furiosa climbed down from the War Rig and headed toward the platform.

“Rev it up for the Immortan Joe!” How many times had she heard those words before, flinched at the sound as she heard it echoing from the distant Immortan's Tower? As Furiosa strode forth out of the shadow of stone onto the iron platform, the Lift Imperators parted for her, dipping their heads politely to acknowledge her. It took her a moment to realize that somehow it was as though his name could not touch her, shrouded in power as she was.

She glanced up, and saw the War Pups peering down at her, at the Revheads and Organics standing at attention, their eyes wandering away from the Immortan in his tower, down toward her in curiosity, whispering amongst themselves as she strode out into the glaring sun beside the dusty tanker. 

She passed the Organics standing by with their air hoses and compressors, ready to begin the first stage of the decontamination process, to blow off the dust and sand that clung to the War Boys and their cars. They ducked their heads in reverence, saluting her with the V8.

In the bright sunlight her Half-Life Nobles stood at attention waiting for her, the low hum of the engines of the escort singing a joyful hymn in metallic harmony, awaiting their own turn back up the lifts.

Ahead, a scarred and scab-covered War Boy in the escort climbed shakily out of the passenger side of the vehicle. He leaned down stiffly to help a child out of the car, picking it up and setting it to sit high on his shoulders, much to his Driver's irritation.

She looked away, her eyes scanning the crowd around her.

“I welcome back my Imperator Furiosa!” The timing was impeccable, and she stood at the head of the tanker as the tumultuous din of the crowd cheering crashed around her, like the sound of a roaring storm tearing through the waste.

Slowly she lifted her hands in the salute, forming the V8, the actuators in her metal hand clicking and whirring.

*****

The central shop echoed with the sound of the War Tower at work. As the tanker was brought up into the shop, swarms of Organics flooded the great open space to unload the goods. The Tertius and Quartus had come over from the Immortan's Tower to oversee the unloading. Checking the accounts books, they organized the sorting of the goods, sending them to where they should go. Simple tree oils, sun-dried blocks of brine shrimp, and other foodstuff went up into the kitchens, the tools and parts to their specific shops, and the fine, expensive luxury goods were individually and carefully packed by the Quartus Imperator himself to be ferried over to Immortan's Tower by cable.

Meanwhile, Furiosa and her crew headed to the special hallway set up as the decontamination corridor; by custom none of the escort could decontaminate first before the Imperator and his Half-life Nobles, so over time, it became polite to clean up first so that the escort could rest. 

Furiosa smiled a little to herself; she remembered a time when she was a young Lancer when the escort War Boys had to make do decontaminating and cleaning their own gear. These days a team of Decontamination Organics did all the work, collecting and bagging their dirty clothes as the War Boys undressed. 

Her new blouse had been dusted off and carefully stowed beneath the Imperator's seat along with some of her other things; after that night with Coil she had left it off, unaccustomed to cloth against the bare skin of her torso. It felt more natural to be like the other War Boys and besides, it was too fine to leave to someone else to decontaminate; anything of real value such as tools or dust wraps were usually left with the vehicles so nothing would be misplaced. The Decontamination Organics were War Boys who were known to be scrupulously honest, returning anything that was given to them, but with particularly fine things no one left to chance. Delicate items, valuable items, and items of personal value rarely left their owners for longer than it took to decontaminate. After all, sometimes an unskilled Organic might mean more tears and loose seams on a piece of clothing or a prized dust wrap, and her blouse, even if it was made of patches, was too new to already need patching and repair.

As Furiosa undressed, she meant to fix her eyes away from Coil, but they kept sliding over to the strong curve of his back as he bent over to untie his boots, to the prickle of stubble that shot through his scalp and his jaw, dark-haired and scruffy from days on the road.

She glanced away decisively, untying her bootlaces as he turned, but as they both straightened to pull off their trousers, her hand brushed his lightly and both drew their hands back quickly, as if they had touched the steel case of a hot engine.

Morsov helped the children undress, handing their clothes to the nearest Organic.

“These clothes. Give it to the Wretched, please.”

“Ain't no use for slaver's cloth in the Citadel,” the Ace added, folding up his clothes neatly before handing it over to the Organic. “No War Boy belongs to anyone but our own Daddy, our own family.”

Coil set his hand lightly on the ball of her shoulder, and whether it was to help her keep her balance as she stepped out of her trousers or because he knew she didn't like hearing people talk about the Immortan, she didn't know. That familiar, friendly hand seemed different now though, his touch sending a shock of sensation through her body and it took her a while to realize that strangely, the words didn't hurt her in quite the same way they used to.

As she passed into the showers, she walked by the HazMat Imperator. He nodded to her, politely touching his black fork-tined respirator and she unbuckled her mechanical hand, giving it over to him. He took it with both hands reverently, assuring her that he would personally see to it himself.

 

They had not planned it, but they had acted in tandem. Furiosa and Coil both scrubbed down and cleaned up quickly, not bothering to linger in post-decontamination like the others who headed toward the catchment to laze in the cool water. They were the first to be dressed and away in spare trousers and boots that did not fit quite as well, as the Organics sent all their usual gear to be cleaned and decontaminated. The Ace moved to follow her once she was done, but then deciding against it, headed off toward the catchment with the others.

Separately, Furiosa and Coil went their own ways without a word to each other, neither of them wanting to appear as though they knew what the other wanted.

Furiosa stopped briefly by the War Rig in its great shop, and the Rev Heads cleaning and scrubbing out the tanker all paused in their work, waiting for her to pass. The War Rig itself had been already cleaned, so she quickly found what she was looking for under the Imperator's seat, pocketed it, and headed to the upper warren.

 

As Imperator, Furiosa had her own private room higher in the upper warren, a room inherited from Imperator Acosta, but she had never used it. Other Imperators also had their quarters nearby, mostly those Imperators that served the War Tower by guarding the lifts and the bridges, doing the dirty work of settling little squabbles and disputes among the War Boys that were too trivial to bring to the War Rig Imperator. The higher-ranked numbered Imperators had quarters in the Immortan's Tower, close by his side, though in the past when she was younger, they had also lived up in the upper warren beside their fellow Imperators.

She remembered the Prime Imperator's room in the upper warren too well. It was close enough to Acosta's old room that she never went up there.

She shivered in the dark tunnels of the warren, lit fitfully at intervals, realizing that she was alone for the first time since she had become Imperator.

She walked a little faster, hugging herself tight.

 

Furiosa hadn't expected to see Coil at the nest, but it made sense once he stepped forward.  
They paused upon sighting each other in the dim hallway, lit by seeps of flickering sodium vapor lights. From here it was hard to tell was his expression was, hidden in shadow, but then Coil stepped forward, closing the gap between them as neatly as if he were driving.

He said nothing, but stepped into the empty nest first, and then once she was inside, followed her. Propriety, in case someone was watching, was her first thought; Half-life Nobles, when acting as the Imperator's crew, escorted him before and behind, protecting him wherever he went. Acosta was very strict about this; the Ace often made this sort of move whenever they walked through the Citadel together, sometimes even before she was an Imperator, an old habit that was hard to break.

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know.” 

There was a moment of awkward tension; she looked back out the open doorway wondering if anyone was coming but not hearing the echoing scuff of boots on stone.

It was the first time they had been alone since that night in the War Rig, and if she closed her eyes, it seemed that she could still see the flashes of lightning that were seared into her memory.

A little motion of her hand. She didn't mean it or perhaps she did, and with that gesture, he drew her into his arms. He smelled clean, like the black soap, with a faint lingering scent of pure water clinging to his skin. He was still bare, not having put on the white yet, and with the stubble of his beard scratching against her cheek, she could almost pretend he was not a War Boy, but just a man.

Green plants, trees with their heavy-hanging fruit, firm but yielding against her lips. The clinging vines whose globular fruit dripped like beads of water...

She tightened her arms around his waist, and he felt warm to her, hot, even though he was still damp from the bath.

Her thoughts drifted again to the secret green place deep inside of Bartertown, and she sighed, imagining them together there, instead of caged in this tower of stone.

“You feel good.” 

“So do you.” His hands dug into her sore shoulders, and she moaned at the touch, pleasurable and painful all at once, working out the knots in her back muscles, until she found herself pressed hard against him, heart pounding with anticipation.

She touched her pocket briefly, but then tightened her arm around his back.

“We can't. Not here.” But she leaned against him anyway, reluctant to draw away.

“Nest's for sleeping. Too bad we don't have our little car anymore. I'd wreck it for you,” he kissed her forehead lightly before turning his head for a kiss.

“Discretion, Coil.” Remembering herself, Furiosa untangled herself from his arms. “It can't be known.”

“Why not? We've ridden together for years. Why-” 

“I'm...the Imperator now. It wouldn't be right.”

“Everyone knew about Acosta and Moki.” Coil's brow furrowed. “They didn't flaunt it but all the same, everyone knew.”

“Yes, but...” Furiosa shook her head, unable to answer as Coil waited for her. “The circumstances. The circumstances aren't the same. The Numbers, they've got their eye on me. On the entire crew. The Immortan's Tower is watching. I can't...seem weak.” Once the words were out of her mouth, she realized that she had said the wrong thing; it was not what she meant.

“Weak?” Coil laughed. “No one's going to think you weak for having a best mate. Probably the other way around, they'd think it a bit odd if you didn't have one.”

“No it's not...I said it wrong. You don't understand...you can't.” And the words stuck in her mouth, not because she didn't want to say them but because she could not say them. He could never understand, none of them could. Acosta had never been owned by Immortan Joe in the same way, not the way she had been, a possession, a plaything that he could enjoy at his will, discard at his pleasure, could dominate in body and soul. None of them had known a life that she had known, and they could never know what Joe was really like and how possessive he was, wanting to own every part of her that he could see, that he could touch, and even those parts of her deep down inside that were for herself only, those things that no one could have. Joe had been greedy for that too.

For the first time in a long time, Furiosa's hand wandered to the curve of her hip, feeling for the belt of leather and steel that she could still remember biting into her skin as she laid down on the stone bed, trying to forget her existence.

Instead, her hands touched the leather belt of her Imperator's badge and when she felt the rough canvas of her spare trousers beneath her palm, she was relieved.

“What's there to understand?” Coil shrugged. “So you're responsible and you always have been. You just want to keep the boys in the Immortan's Tower thinking you're responsible in everything. Professional, nary a bolt out of place-”

“Please, just do this for me. We can't let anyone else know.”

“Discretion.” He leaned in, the light touch of lips that sealed his word, a promise more than a kiss itself but his smile was tensed and his expression unhappy. “Fine. If that's the way it has to be. Of course I trust your instincts, Driver. You've never steered us wrong into battle. I don't like it much, but if this is what you want, I won't change a bit of what we appear to be. Even if...other things have changed.”

“Tomorrow. After the McFeast,” she said impulsively. “We can meet at the War Rig. The shop will be closed.”

“And whenever else we can.”

“Within reason,” she added.

“Within reason.” He offered her his hand. “Let me finish rubbing you down, Driver. Look at you, how tense you are! We have the rest of the day off now that we're back, let's get you relaxed and comfortable.”

*****

“Always good to get back to the nest,” the Ace touched the black-stained stone of the threshold as he passed through the rough-carved doorframe, still damp from decontamination. He had changed into clean trousers and spare boots, but was still unwhitened, his unadorned flesh strangely human-colored, the healing scars on his cheekbones tracing red lines along his skin.

Furiosa looked up as he walked in and then looked away; it was rude to stare at anyone who wasn't dressed. But she couldn't help but take a peek at his bare hands; was a rare day to see the Ace cleaned up like this, even the black engine grime had been washed off, though it clung to the creases in his fingers and around his fingernails.

Even with that slightly skew jaw and the hint of lumps along the side of his throat he looked strangely like an ordinary man, she thought.

“Did you forget something?” She looked back down at her mechanical hand, polishing the leather straps with clear grease to keep them from cracking.

“Embrocation oil.” The Ace looked around the nest, and paused when he realized that it had been put with Imperator Acosta's things.

A broken pair of bootlaces, a stone-carved skull. A small toy car with buttons for wheels and thread for steering. Extra pairs of boots, two extra pairs of neatly rolled trousers, and some loose tools that had not been reused since. It formed something of a shrine in the nest; after she and the Ace had moved in, the Ace had carefully cut a small shelf in the stone in a dark corner, away from the airshaft, and put all the Imperator's things there.

A crude engine pinched out of clay. The Ace picked it up. “This is Moki's. He never finished it.” He set it aside, on the ground away from Acosta's things, but then thought better of it and put it back in the niche.

“If you want, I have some.”

The Ace sniffed the air, scenting the sharp herbal scent of embrocation oil that still tingled hot along her shoulders, along her side.

“Nah, it's fine. Like ours better. 's mine anyway, least half of it is.” The Ace carefully picked through Acosta's belongings.

He found the small brown glass bottle quickly. Smooth and perfect in its making, a relic of Before, and sometimes in the Waste there were so many of them in one cache that they were absolutely worthless, no better than a novelty, hardly practical.

“Goes bad if it stays out too long anyway,” the Ace said, more to himself than her, and he unscrewed the metal lid.

He sat silent for a long time, staring at the bottle.

A spicy, aromatic scent, and she caught just the tiniest whiff of it before the Ace capped the bottle. It was a familiar scent; the older Half-life Nobles stank of it after long runs like this. Embrocation like that was expensive stuff. To put it together, often War Boys would pool their food bars to trade for the materials. Some ingredients were rare indeed and could only be bought in Bartertown.

“Tree oil. Acetone. Menthol. Flower oil. Capsaicin. Gotta wash your hands good after usin it, you'll burn your eyes if you touch 'em.” The Ace said thoughtfully and she wondered who he was talking to, because it didn't seem as though he was talking too her. But then he turned to catch her eye. “Back then there was one time we found a cache of plant oils. Plants you never even heard of. Plants that are gone forever. Still remember the smells. Most of that went to the Immortan's Tower, some of it got traded away.”

He sighed, turning the bottle over in his hands, looking at the way the oil moved inside the bottle.

“Take mine,” Furiosa said, and she dug into her pocket for the bottle that she had retrieved from the War Rig. It was silver-gray, of an unusual sheen that glistened with a guzzoline rainbow, gleaming in the wan electrical light.

“Where'd you get this?” The Ace looked at it admiringly.

“Bought it in Bartertown,” she said. It wasn't quite the truth, and she hoped he could not tell.

“A present from Aunty?” The Ace asked, seeing through her easily as he always did. Embarrassed, she nodded, feeling her face hot. 

“She thought the hand seemed heavy. She said she used this herself, when there was too much weight on her own shoulders.”

“Keep it then. Smells good, but it ain't for me,” the Ace said, handing the bottle back to her. “No use for embrocation anyway, need a good pair of hands to put it on.” The Ace set the brown glass bottle back into the niche, carefully standing it with Imperator Acosta's other things.

“Coil is on his way back if you-” But then Furiosa realized that not even someone else with two hands could help the Ace.

“'s fine. Time to get dressed, anyhow. Supper's coming soon,” the Ace muttered to himself, as he began to look around for the things that he'd need to mix up a fresh batch of the white. “Time to start a new bottle.” 

But when the Ace walked away, she saw him wincing, rubbing at his ribs and the old injury there and she knew there was nothing she could do for him.

*****

Gently, in the dim red glow of the coal fire, Morsov painted on coats of healing salve over Gamble's brand with the tip of his finger. The wound burned red and angry, and with each coat he could feel the pup untensing, little by little. But it made Morsov feel proud; the Ace really knew his business, this was a boy who didn't cry out loud, not in fear and not at the pain.

“New formula,” he said to Dart.

“What's new about it?” Dart leaned against the stone wall, watching the Brand Imperator fuss over the temperature of the sacred fire that was never allowed to burn out.

“They're mixing in flower sap to dull the pain.”

“Lucky pups.” Dart ran his fingers over his own brand, long-since healed. “Can hardly remember being branded but I remember how it hurt. Couldn't sleep for days.”

“You were branded young, weren't you?” Morsov asked. 

“Probably a thousand days or so. Born and bred in the Citadel. What about you?”

“When I was ten maybe. Uh...3650 days? Somewhere around there.” Reflexively Morsov's hand moved to touch his brand but he stopped partway.

“Okay, there you go, Gamble. Doesn't hurt too much, does it?” 

Gamble shook his head, blinking away tears.

“Good boy. Okay, come on then Zombie. You can do it.”

Zombie watched with clenched fists, but Morsov picked him up, giving him a squeeze. “Won't pretend it don't hurt, but once done you'll be like me. Look.” He guided Zombie's small palm to the raised scar at the base of his neck. “Feel that. We'll be brothers, War Boys together in one big family.”

Tiny fingers traced the scar curiously, and it almost made Morsov shiver, remembering the pain. “Me and Dart, we're here for you. We...we always keep you safe, okay?”

“Always?”

“Always. But this time it hurts and only once, one bad hurt.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah.” Morsov patted Zombie's back.

The Brand Imperator peered out of the sacred stone chamber deep in the lower warren, a natural cavern carved from the ancient movement of water through stone, the stone smooth and the shape of the room irregular. “Ready to do the next one?”

“Almost.” Morsov gave Zombie a squeeze. “You ready?”

Zombie's mouth tightened in a tense line.

“Come on little War Puppy. It's not so bad.” The Brand Imperator picked up the glowing-hot brand, holding it reverently. “Look, lemme show you.” He turned the brand nimbly in his hands and glancing at a bare spot on his shoulder, touched the brand lightly to his own skin, wincing a little at the hot sizzle of flesh. “See, it's not so bad.” The Brand Imperator carefully put the brand back into the flames, turning it carefully to heat it back up again. With his free hand, he pressed the red mark on his skin with his fingertips. “Not so bad.”

Zombie relaxed a little in Morsov's arms, and Morsov knew it was now or never.

“All right, Zombie. Let's go.”

 

“Are you sure? He's kind of heavy.” Morsov said. Already holding one War Pup, Rose deftly scooped up the quietly sobbing Zombie in her arms, letting him rest his head against her broad shoulder.

“It's fine. They're lighter and easier to lift than a set of new tires, that's for sure. And yes, I still have a jar of the flower sap ointment, don't worry. Know how to deal with the brands. Here Baxter, down.” Rose set down the other War Pup who clung to the folds of her heavy overalls, unwilling to leave her side. She cradled Zombie, rocking him in her arms, patting his back gently. 

“Tomorrow, will come check at morning meal... Oi! Bucket!” Morsov turned, catching a glimpse of Bucket as he passed by with a small crowd of Lancers. Quickly he excused himself from the War Pup's nest, running down the hall to catch up with Bucket, who had fallen to the back of the pack of Lancers, curious to see what Morsov wanted.

“Hey, there's my bro, my mate. My boy Morsov!” Bucket greeted him warmly, clasping hands. His unwhitened skin was the color of sunset-streaked dunes, ruddy and brown. “What's up? Didn't see you at decon, are Half-life Nobles too good to decon with the rest of the crew?” Bucket teased.

“We go with the Imperator. Uh, so do you know? Where's Stonker?”

“Probably with the car still,” Bucket yawned, stretching his arms. “Phew, that was a long run.” Seeing the confused look on Morsov's face, Bucket explained, “Stonker never decontaminates with the crew. He likes going later, once the buzz dies down.”

“Oh. Do you think he's still in the main shop?”

“Yeah, should be. But just warning you, he doesn't like being pushed around. That's a thing you'd know if you rode single, that the pace is up to your Driver, no fussing or pressuring. Course, you'd know that, you rode with Elvis.” Bucket made a face.

“Yeah...” Their eyes met in a brief and knowing look, but then Morsov turned. “Will check on Stonker, maybe.”

“Probably shouldn't. Better leave him alone. But hey, don't say I didn't warn ya.” Bucket grinned, baring a mouthful of sharp teeth. “Time for me to get my clean white on and hit the nest. Gonna get a nap in now, and tonight I'm gonna get as much sleep in that Half-life Noble nest I can before we're kicked out tomorrow. Tell Stonker to wake me for supper, okay?”

“Sure.”

 

“Oi! Stonker!” Morsov waved from across the great shop, as Stonker wiped down his dusty car. The tall War Boy still had his dust wrap draped over his mouth and nose and his driving goggles on, obscuring his face but protecting himself as Revheads with blowers moved by, lazily blowing dust off and out of the main shop. When they saw Morsov, they stopped their blowers, idling the machines as they waited for him to pass.

“Morsov? What are you doing here?” It was hard to read Stonker's expression, hidden behind his gear, his voice muffled beneath layers of cloth, but Morsov smiled at seeing him, smudged with the golden dust of the waste. “You've decontaminated already, haven't you? That's a clean coat of white.” 

“Yeah, wanted to-” But as he walked over, Stonker motioned him away. 

“Stay back. Still haven't cleaned up.”

“It's okay. I waited, see if you want to come to wash with me-”

“No. Don't waste water.” Stonker gestured sharply, waving Morsov away. “Go, will see you later.”

“But Stonker, don't you want to go soak together-”

Stonker gestured again, turning his back on Morsov. “No! That is, just go away, all right? Go back into post, you'll get dirty again out here.”

Morsov flinched at the forbidding gesture. Stumbling back, he went back into the warrens, his mind a daze. Stonker, pushing him away with his words, and then suddenly he remembered how Stonker had pushed him away those nights in the car, on the empty waste between the Citadel and Bartertown.

Not now, Morsov. Go away.

The words rang echoed through his mind, clanging against each other like the shift and rattle of loose bolts and screws in a dented tin box.

Behind him, the blowers started again, echoing loud through the stone.

*****

After the dizzying ride up the lifts to the Citadel, Nux got out and opened the passenger side door, offering Slit his hand.

Slit glared at him, offended, but then let Nux help him up with a choked-back moan, brows furrowed in pain.

“Careful now, Lancer,” Nux murmured, placed his hand lightly below Slit's elbow to help him up onto his feet, feeling the creak and pop of joints and bones in Slit's body as he straightened up.

“You're hurting, aren't you. I could try to trade for something with that flower juice in it, maybe. I hear the Organics make some kind of a hot drink with the parts of the flower. That would help you feel it less.”

Slit shook his head minutely and made a brief, absent gesture with his hand to indicate he was fine, or at least that he was not admitting to not being fine.

“Let's go get decontaminated first, huh?” Nux suggested but then he frowned, seeing the sorry state of his Lancer. Long streaks of scabbed-over scratches and cuts tore uneven roads of brown across his whitened skin. Dried flakes of blood streaked the side of Slit's face and throat; the wound still leaked a little, closing up slowly. Unshaven, his white cracking and dirty after days on the road, Slit made a face, looking away from the decontamination corridor. 

“We have to pass through. It's the rules.”

Slit's body tensed all over and then he flinched in pain, as though for a moment he had forgotten the summed total of his injuries, and that the full extent suddenly caught up to him. 

“You probably shouldn't go under the shower. Shouldn't get water in the wounds. And what if you slip?”

Slit made a sound of agreement.

“How about I wash you? Like we did in Bartertown?”

 

Sitting naked with a scrubbed out metal can filled with clean water, Nux carefully dabbed at Slit's skin. He started first on Slit's face and head, while the cloth was still clean, dipping it into the still-steaming water, heated from its run through the steam pipes; at this level of the Citadel past the condensers, it was water again, and taking a little to wash with would not affect the works, not as long as the Organics refilled it down the line.

Careful not to touch the wound or drip dirty water into it, Nux carefully cleaned Slit's ears, his nose, his face, and the back of his head. The small can of water grew dark, black with flakes of dried blood that melted into the liquid and yet the swirling sediment of Slit's faded white roiled through the cooling water.

Once he got past Slit's neck, he poured out the filthy water into the drains, refilling it carefully.

As he sat in the corner washing Slit, Drivers and Lancers filtered in and out of the nearby decontamination showers; they had missed the bulk of the escort cleaning off in one loud raucous group. 

Stonker walked in and glanced at them, holding his washcloth over his groin modestly. Nux nodded greetings and Stonker waved with his free hand before turning his back to them, facing the corner. The tall Driver washed off quickly, the water draining around his feet and when Nux next looked up, Stonker was already gone.

“Do you ever wonder where the drains go?” Nux asked, as he ran the cloth over Slit's shoulders, causing Slit's breath to catch. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”

Slit shook his head.

“Oh good. The water goes down the drains and is collected in a settling tank. And once all the contaminants settle to the bottom, they filter it, mix in some more water, and give it to the Wretched for their wages.” 

Slit gave him a wry, skeptical look.

Nux dipped the cloth again and wrung it out, running it over Slit's arms, one at a time, scrubbing where he could scrub safely, in the coarse hair of his armpits, over Slit's strong shoulders. When he wiped off the white on Slit's arms, he could see the still-healing bruises, blotched purple-black like the plague against Slit's pale skin, and Nux resolved to be more gentle. He barely touched the wet cloth over the bruised skin of Slit's torso, afraid to hurt Slit's broken ribs, but the light touch made Slit shudder so that he suddenly snatched the washcloth from Nux's hand.

“All right, if you'd rather do it yourself.” Nux sat back on his heels. But then when Slit twisted to touch the washcloth to his back, his breath hissed through gritted teeth, and tears of pain sprang up in his eyes.

Wordlessly, Nux took the cloth back, and washed Slit's back as Slit took shallow, calming breaths, waiting for the pain to subside, blinking back his tears.

“So about the dirty water. I'm pretty sure it's true that it goes to the Wretched. I heard it from an Organic.” 

About to say something, Slit closed his mouth when Nux gave him a pointed look.

“Yeah, I know. 'Like you should trust an Organic's word.' I know you were going to say that,” Nux murmured. “But you know, not all of them work on the farms.” Nux pointed to the pipes that ran through the room. “There are Organics that work on the power and the water, and maintain the mills. Some of them would be Blackthumbs in their own right, if they were working on cars instead. So I think it's true. Because they don't use decontamination water for the farms. After all, the Organics rinse the plants with clean water after every duststorm. Otherwise we wouldn't have the catchments. So where else would filthy water go? It goes to the Wretched.”

Slit shrugged, an eloquent gesture. What did it matter, Slit's movement said, and Nux had no answer.

“Just...something to think about, I guess. Stand up, will you? I'll do your legs.”

Slit stood up slowly, easing himself upright. Starting at his groin, Nux washed briskly, and he knew that Slit's pain was deep when Slit's cock barely stirred at his touch. 

Nux washed Slit's lean legs. Traces of the white clung to his body from the preparations before the Thunderdome; it was not usual for a War Boy to be so covered with white; no one wore it under their clothes. As Nux scrubbed, he noticed that for once, there were no open wounds or cuts on Slit's scarred thighs and calves; everything had scabbed over and healed. Time on the road was time he couldn't hurt himself, Nux thought, and for a moment he felt nothing but relief. Words of praise to the Immorta sang through his head, but then he looked up from washing Slit's feet to see the scars.

So many scars, and these superficial surface scars were only the ones he could see. Tires, trucks, cars, explosions, thundersticks, the geared stars of the sky, the moon wheel in the night, writ onto pale skin in scars old and new. But the damage inside, like a broken part torn free, could not be seen. Those broken pieces could never be extracted and replaced, could never be found, could never be fixed. The damage that would have bricked an engine lay quiet and dormant in Slit's heart. Silent but not without voice, the scars spoke of a world within Slit that Nux could never know, could never touch.

Slit's hand closed on Nux's shoulder, gripping him tight.

**Author's Note:**

> Ekstasis, from the Greek.
> 
> [End notes, chapter by chapter](http://evilasiangenius.tumblr.com/post/162248611804/ekstasis-end-notes).


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